


you took my soul and wiped it clean

by staringatstars



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Language of Flowers, M/M, Memory Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-05-15 18:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19301353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: On a summer afternoon, a stranger in a cream-colored vest and coat walked into Crowley's flower shop with a rather odd request:"What sort of floral arrangement would you make for one whom you love very much, even whilst knowing they could never feel the same?"





	1. observance

There was a curious flower shop in London. 

No one knew precisely when it was built or when it opened, but the shop rapidly became known for a vast collection of rare foliage that always appeared lush and green even in the dampest, dreariest weather. Almost overnight it gained a reputation for being one of the hottest spots to purchase herbs and shrubs and other flora for windowsill gardens. Ferns hung in baskets from the ceiling, vines crept over the walls, and the arrangement of scents and colors blended so perfectly that those who frequented often did so because of its calming effects. For most, the flower shop felt very much like a garden, though not just any garden. It was like finding a piece of home they’d never known, entering a land forbidden since long before their ancestors or their ancestor’s ancestors were born. In spite of this, however, very rarely was there anything good to say about the owner. Nor was there anything truly bad to say other than he was rather, well, odd. 

It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was about the florist that so unsettled his customers, and even harder to articulate, but those who tried often blamed the dark glasses that concealed his eyes or the restless energy permeating from his skin. Though he tended to remain behind the counter or in the conjoined nursery with the plants that weren’t quite ready for sale yet, there was a sense of constant movement about him. Oh, he’d cross his arms over his chest with a scowl aimed at a wilting leaf or some sort, but anyone staring in his direction for too long would have the sudden, dizzying sensation that the man existed in multiple spaces at once. 

“Well, he must,” a young socialite mentioned laughingly to her equally affluent friends at brunch, “How else is he to keep that place running on his own?”

Ever since the shop’s doors had opened to the public, not a soul besides the florist had been spotted taking care of the flowers. It was a big mystery, though not an overly compelling one. Customers wondered how one man could possibly procure such high-quality merchandise, care for it, and also run the register, but they never wondered for long. Whether it was due to a lack of curiosity or the unseen, guiding force of an ethereal touch, the question of how Anthony J. Crowley happened upon his merchandise soon left their minds, and he carried on unbothered by questions not even he could answer. 

For you see, no one knew when the flower shop was built nor when it opened, nor how it managed to procure the loveliest, most beautiful flowers in all of London, least of all the florist. 

That is, until one Sunday afternoon, when the shop mysteriously emptied at the stroke of three. The florist in his dirt-stained apron didn’t know what to make of the sudden exodus but would confess if asked that he was not so much a fan of people overinflating his flowers’ egos with unwarranted praise like, “Oh, aren’t these striped petals just gorgeous?” that he was sorry to see them go. Honestly, it’d take him ages to tear down the gardenia’s self-esteem again after the customers had spent the day fawning all over its white blooms.

Taking advantage of the brief respite, he grabbed a mister and began spraying a fine layer over his daffodils, only to set it down with a sigh when the bell chimed at the door, and a sole customer walked in. He was of average height, dressed in a cream-colored suit with a tartan bow tie, and looked rather as though he’d stepped out of the wrong century. His prematurely white hair curled back from his forehead and sides, and if Crowley didn’t think he needed sleep before, he certainly did now, because for a moment he could have sworn he’d seen the faintest shimmer of a halo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With these two, it's always a love story


	2. arrangement

It all started with the ringing of a bell.

Crowley lifted his head at the sound, calling out a welcome, a first for him. Standing by the entrance, and looking oddly as though he’d been standing there for longer than the chime would suggest, was a gentleman in a cream-colored coat and vest. There was something about the way his shoulders curled forward, as though they weren’t quite used to the posture, and the hands clasped tightly in front of him, that gave off a pervading sense of gloom. 

It was only natural that not every customer walked into Crowley’s shop with a spring in their step. Flowers weren’t just for happy occasions, after all. They were a common sight at funerals and wakes - gravestones adorned with bouquets, coffins with roses. Although Crowley would never ask, a part of him couldn’t help wondering who the man with the tartan bow tie had lost. It was the only explanation Crowley could think of for why he’d look so downright miserable, but it wasn’t the florist’s job to pry, no matter how piqued his curiosity, so he set down the mister, wiped his palms on his apron, then strolled to the counter where the register sat to keep an eye on the gentleman. 

“Is there anything I can I help you with today, my good sir?” Crowley called out when the customer refused to stray from the entrance. Though his feet remained rooted to the ground, the man’s eyes roved over the greenery with a touch of wistfulness, tracing the shape of each leaf and petal as though committing them to memory. Upon hearing the sound of Crowley’s voice, however, he turned sharply to pierce the florist with a searching gaze, one that struck Crowley like a physical weight. While Crowley struggled to swallow with a throat that had suddenly gone desert-dry, the man in the bow tie wrung his hands nervously. “You’re in luck, actually,” the florist managed to say with flippancy so practiced it was basically second nature, and was satisfied to see that the man’s fidgeting appeared to ease a smidge when he did. “Usually, this shop is fairly crowded. Today, though, it seems that everyone’s gone out to lunch at once, which means you'll have my undivided attention.”

The man in the tartan bow tie gave the currently very empty shop a cursory glance. “Yes, indeed, so it is. Will wonders never cease?” It wasn’t so much the words as the delivery that resonated - a little dry, a little despairing, like the orphaned set-up to an old, oft-repeated joke told solely out of habit. For someone who appeared on first impression to have a firm grasp on the finer pleasures in life, his laugh lines were sadly neglected, the echoes of old smiles lingering about the corners of his mouth like traces of a life long past. 

His darting gaze flicked towards the ceiling, quick as the beat of a butterfly’s wings. Crowley followed his line-of-sight, curious to know if there was a leak or some mold patch he wasn’t aware of. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, though, and so returned to taking stock of the strange customer dithering in his shop. Now, it could have been the furrowed brow or the frown that didn’t fit or the exhaustion that rose and swelled and crested off his essence in tumultuous waves but the florist made a grand show of reclaiming the mister to spritz a spiky succulent before pointedly not looking at the customer edging towards the door when he asked off-handedly, “Is there anything, in particular, you’re looking for?”

Though Crowley didn’t turn to check, he could sense the confusion his behavior had caused, and grinned wickedly at a begonia that promptly began to quiver in its pot. Had he possessed a broader frame of reference when it came to the care and general maintenance of botanicals, he might have realized that such behavior was considered unusual amongst plant life. However, being as that wasn’t the case, he bared his teeth in a wicked grin, revealing too many teeth crowded in a mouth stretched unnaturally wide. The man in the bow tie, having watched the scene with an expression that could only be described as unbearably fond, cleared his throat self-consciously, giving himself a shake before replying in an anxious rush, “Simply browsing for now, I’m afraid.” And since he’d confessed to being idle, Crowley turned to look at him consideringly over the rims of his dark glasses. It wasn’t every day free labor walked so willingly into his clutches, and he doubted he’d get another chance to take advantage of it. 

“Since you’re not busy,” the florist purred with the thinnest veneer of pleasantness, “would you do me a favor and water the boxwood shrubs in the back?” They were in an odd place where the sprinklers never seemed to reach, and if Crowley had to spend his lunch hour (not that he ever ate) watering the foliage, then he was bringing this hapless gent down with him. At the very least, he’d make for better company than the begonias. 

A flush creeping up the man’s pale cheeks, he insisted that while he would certainly lend a hand, there would be no favors. No deals. Honestly, Crowley didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. With a shrug of nonchalance, he replied, “Suit yourself, then. Just be sure that the water drains from the pots and then pour some chopped leaves onto the soil to keep them cool, but be careful not to bury the stems.”

“Goodness,” the man huffed, though he was already making his way behind the counter where the spare watering can was kept. “I’m not an employee.” On the whole, it came across as more of a token protest than any genuine upset. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to put ice in with the orchids, as well?” 

If the florist had been paying attention, he might have heard the note of hope in the man’s voice, but as he was quite occupied promising untold horrors to a wilting sunflower, the best he could manage was a distracted, “That’d be great, actually.”

The man shuffled to the shrubs, clutching a watering can to his chest that splashed over the floor when he swerved to avoid bumping into the florist on his way past. Some of it got on Crowley’s snakeskin shoes, though he didn’t mind it much. If a little water was enough to bother him then running a flower shop wouldn’t have exactly been the best career choice, anyway, now would it? He waved off the man’s apologies then went to find a pair of garden shears to put the fear of himself back into a particularly uppity rose bush. With them both hard at work, the shop became quiet, with the exception of the occasional _snip_ of Crowley’s pruning shears and an accompanying cackle. This, for some reason, appeared to lift the customer’s spirits enough that he even attempted conversation. 

“Don’t these usually grow in tropical regions such as the Bahamas and, if I recall correctly, Cuba?” 

Interest successfully peaked, Crowley looked up from his work to study the gentleman’s profile in earnest for the first time. “You have an interest in botany?”

“Actually, a very dear friend of mine does,” the man quickly explained as his hands fussed with the empty watering can, fingertips tracing its rim. “ _Did._ ” When he lifted his head to reveal a forlorn smile, his eyes were noticeably wet. “Botany and astronomy.” The man seemed to weigh his options for a moment, then added before he could change his mind, “He used to say that he hung the stars. Nebulas, to be precise.” For a moment, he looked so happy and proud that Crowley felt a twinge of jealousy. 

What must it be like to be loved like that? 

The man, taking his silence for skepticism, clumsily attempted to rescind the claim. After all, it was ridiculous, wasn’t it? A man hanging the stars in the sky. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Crowley replied archly. “Who’s to say he didn’t?” 

At that, the gentleman went strangely still, so still that the florist wasn’t entirely certain he was breathing. It was only then that he realized how much the stranger moved. Usually, the man was an open book, telegraphing his every thought and emotion through the ever-changing width of his mouth, through the odd flex in his jaw and a tightness at the corners of his pale blue eyes. Now, though, he could have been carved from marble. Unfortunately, Crowley was running a floral shop and not a statuary, thus he would simply have to get the man moving again.

He latched on to a sense of familiarity that’d been eating at him since the man in the waistcoat had strolled through his door. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

The question earned him a sharp intake of breath from the stranger, followed by a look of hope. “Well, yes, actually I-”

“Aren’t you Mr. Fell from a couple blocks down? The rare books dealer?”

When the man’s countenance fell, the temperature fell with it and the lights dimmed, as though his happiness were its own source of warmth and light. Even the plants seemed to agree, for most of them had curved and extended their stems just to be nearer to the stranger, though he admittedly didn’t appear quite as friendly as he had at the start. That wasn’t to say he was menacing in any way, only that he swallowed thickly, blinking hard, something vulnerable and raw taking over. “How in Heaven did you hear about that?”

Crowley set the mister down to nervously card his fingers through his hair. “Well, I…” In his mind, he struggled to conjure up some snippet of conversation, some glimpse of a shopping bag with a brand on it that might have clued him into the name. All he got for his efforts, in the end, was a lancing pain in his temples, gentle as an ice pick. Avoiding the man’s earnest gaze, he clenched his fists and glanced aside. “Must have been from one of the customers.” Even with his head turned, the man’s quiet disappointment was a winter snap spreading its chill.

On a level deeper than bone, the florist knew that the man standing before him with sunlight weaving through the strands of his soft curls ought to be smiling. Seeing him upset, it was as though the building blocks of the universe had been shifted ever so slightly out of place. 

“Why don’t you try arranging a bouquet?” Crowley offered. Flower arranging was meant to be therapeutic, and oddly enough, the florist had discovered a persistent urge to help this sad, lonely man that extended beyond wanting to keep his plants from freezing to death. When Mr. Fell gave him a strange look, he added with a wink, “First one’s on the house.”

Rolling down his sleeves, he sauntered up to the counter, then leaned against it to watch the bookseller run his hand consideringly over the purple hyacinth. He stroked their curved edges, tracing the ridge that split their petals, then moved onto the blue violets. Unlike Crowley, he was supremely gentle, speaking in low, reassuring tones, which the plants responded to with the fervency and ardor of the most devoted apostles.

“What sort of arrangement would you make, Mr. Crowley,” and he deftly plucked a branch of fir from a vase, “for someone whom you love very, very much, even whilst knowing they could never feel the same?”

“A bouquet of nightshade, probably.” At the bookseller’s look of horror, he threw his hands up, “I’m kidding! It was jussst a bad joke,” then suppressed a wince at the slip, hoping not to draw attention to it. Unfortunately, Mr. Fell couldn’t seem to do him the courtesy of pretending not to notice, because an inscrutable expression crossed his face. Instead of commenting, however, as Crowley’s darkening scowl clearly warned against, the bookseller merely stared wordlessly for a time, apparently lost in thought, until he roused with a quiet exclamation, whereupon he resumed his unofficial tour around the shop in earnest. 

When Mr. Fell finished, he brought so many flowers to the counter that it was impossible to see the man’s face behind the stems and petals, much to Crowley’s dismay. He didn’t think the bookseller was purposely taking advantage of his generosity, though, and it wasn’t like the flowers weren’t being donated to a good cause, so he decided to let this one go. “So,” he picked up a dried reed and a twig of wheat and twirled them around his fingers, “obviously you don’t want flowers that are too peppy, but not too frigid either, and long lines to give it a droopy, wilting effect.” He then gathered up the stems, cut off the ends, and wrapped them in a tartan ribbon sewn with golden accents. In addition to the violets, hyacinth, fir, reeds, and wheat, there were several pink camellia to brighten the bouquet, globe thistle, pampas grass, little bluestem, and love-lies-bleeding amaranthus. The last happened to be Crowley’s personal favorite of the bunch. He grinned, showing off a mouth full of teeth as he handed the bouquet over to the bookseller. “These should do nicely so long as you let the bouquet hang from your lap,” his shoulders lifted briefly in a shrug as his smile took on a playful, teasing edge, “though you’ll end up looking like an abandoned bride or a widow like that. Perhaps even a young maiden waiting on the wharf for her lover to return from the war.”

The bookseller pressed the bouquet close to his chest, breathing in their scent with a soft, aching gaze. His eyes flicked up to the florist with the strangest amalgamation of anticipation and grief, his mouth parted as if to speak, but when it did, “Sounds rather appropriate to me,” Crowley couldn’t shake the inkling that it hadn’t been what he’d intended to say at all. 

He rested on his elbows, leaning over the counter with a conspiratorial whisper and a pointed glance at the arrangement, “Look here, if you _really_ want to get the message across, I would either put some dead branches in there or let the sorry buggers wither.” It didn’t completely rid the bookseller of his melancholy nor lift the burden of bitter resignation from his shoulders, but it did startle a laugh from him, a chuckle that bubbled forth with a musical lilt, pure and honest. 

And in the bookseller’s hands, the flowers and stems alike began to tremble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see here. So, in order (mostly), we have:
> 
> Boxwood shrubs - Healing  
> Orchid - Love, Beauty, Refinement  
> Sunflower - Joy, Life, Loyalty, Longevity  
> Roses (One in bloom) - I Still Love You  
> Roses (Many in a cluster) - Harming  
> Purple Hyacinth - I Am Sorry, Please Forgive, Sorrow  
> Blue Violet - Watchfulness, Faithfulness, I'll Always Be There  
> Fir - Time  
> Wheat - Prosperity, Wealth  
> Pink Camellia - Longing For You  
> Wisteria - Love, Immortality, Tenderness  
> Globe Thistle - Loyalty In The Face of Treachery  
> Bouquet of Withered Flowers - Rejected Love


	3. acquaintance

Shortly before opening, Crowley discovered to his eternal consternation that yet another plant had decided to return to the shop. It was a bonsai he could remember selling to a young man in a business suit about two weeks prior as a gift for his six-year-old daughter. Back then, the miniature cherry tree had been vibrant with delicate pink blossoms. Now, however, its limbs were bare, the blossoms having dried and fallen off. 

This particular plant was naturally sensitive to sunlight, requiring indirect exposure on days with high temperatures and regular waterings. The child had likely forgotten about the bonsai, leaving it to wither with thirst when her parents didn’t step in as Crowley had anticipated, and the potted tree, upon realizing that water from a bossy, threatening florist was better than no water at all, had reluctantly returned to the shop, its boughs heavy with trepidation. 

To its surprise, though Crowley immediately plucked the bonsai up by the rim of its pot and carted it off to the nursery, giving the poor thing the closest equivalent to a heart attack a plant could experience, he didn’t toss it into the garbage disposal or into the trash. Instead, he placed it by the windowsill with a sympathetic sigh, filled up the mister, and began gradually rehydrating the soil and moss that surrounded the bonsai tree’s base. 

“Must have been a real nightmare for you to return here,” was all he said. By the time the dirt was saturated to the point that water seeped out from the bottom and spread over the counter, inching towards the sink, there were still no blooms to be seen, but the branches rose a fraction and the trunk straightened, no longer bent and twisted with fear. 

A single brow raised, Crowley scoffed at the sight. 

The bonsai would learn to fear him again once its thirst was slacked and its leaves were healthy. Though the time for blossoms had regrettably passed, there were many who would say that it was the fleetingness of their beauty that was most endearing about this particular species. Crowley did not count himself among those who agreed with the sentiment. After all, what he enjoyed wasn’t the shortness of their lives, but the constancy of them. 

Here and gone and here again. Always changed, yet invariably the same. Reaching for eternity with the ephemeral. 

How could anyone not admire that kind of tenacity? 

Someday, Crowley would have to take the bonsai out of the nursery and put it up for sale again - hopefully to be purchased by someone who would put in the effort to keep it alive - but by that time, it would look good as new, meaning the floral shop’s other occupants wouldn’t begin to doubt their keeper’s ruthless standards. 

Snickering to himself, Crowley gave the miniature tree a brief pat as he left to put the shop in order for the influx of customers that would surely be waiting at the entrance. 

Strangely, when it came time to officially unlock the door, there was only one gentleman waiting outside. His waistcoat and vest were badly rumpled, and his eyes when he looked up to meet Crowley’s inquiring gaze through the glass were tired, bruised and red-rimmed. 

“Back so soon?” Crowley leaned on the doorframe, forcing casualness into his tone until it wasn’t audibly apparent just how much he wanted to wrap Mr. Fell in a blanket and send him home. The bookseller stepped forward with little more than a strained smile in response, and stumbled, leaving Crowley scrambling to catch him. He managed to support him, wrapping his arms around his back while the bookseller leaned heavily against his chest. 

It seemed a waste of breath to ask Mr. Fell if he was okay, so he commanded his tongue to still, not even daring to breathe until the bookseller righted himself. “Forgive me, dear boy,” Mr. Fell apologized, despite there being nothing to forgive. Crowley could still feel the weight and warmth of his hands pressed against his ribs. “I’m afraid I haven’t been affording myself much rest as of late. It seems to be catching up with me.”

“Burning the candle at both ends, are you?”

While Mr. Fell adjusted his lapels and straightened out his vest, Crowley leaned forward to give his curls what he hoped was a surreptitious sniff.

Well, the bookseller didn’t smell strongly of alcohol, at least. There was a faint scent of wine clinging to his clothes, but also traces of old paper, ink, and cocoa. It made the florist’s fingers twitch with the urge to…

To envelope him. Shelter him. Keep him safe. 

Unbeknownst to him, on the outer edges of the mortal plane, a pair of feathered appendages extended as if to do that very thing. He couldn’t help grimacing at the pain that lanced like lightning through his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing against the sting as the unseen was forced to remain so. There was a sharp intake of breath from the bookseller before Crowley sensed him slipping around him and further into the shop, where he soon became lost among the mosaic flora. 

Reluctant to intrude on his boundaries again, intentionally or otherwise, Crowley retreated into the nursery. He had no idea why being around this man was making him act like such a soft-hearted absolute _fool_ , only that if he didn’t get a grip on himself soon Mr. Fell would probably find some other shop to frequent. Once he’d gotten his breathing under control, or rather remembered to start breathing again, it became apparent to him that something about his prodigal bonsai had changed. There were blossoms sprouting from its limbs with pale petals that grew from striking centers. 

His mouth curved in a bemused frown, he glanced out towards the shop where the bookseller stood beneath sunbeams streaming in from a skylight overhead, cradling a dark crimson rose against his breast pocket with his head bowed as though in prayer. 

At this point, Crowley forgot how to breathe and did not bother to remember. 

After counting in his head to twenty-five times - _not too fast, not too fast_ \- he sauntered out to meet him, his long legs generally leading the way. Fortunately, Mr. Fell had moved to marvel at his collection of ghost orchids which, true to their name, bore an uncanny resemblance to nettled specters with lanky limbs jumping out of dark spaces to shout, “Boo!” 

“I grew these myself,” Crowley told him proudly. “There’s only about 1,200 of these little ghosties left in the world.” Whether or not that estimate included his orchids was yet another tale to be told some other time. 

“I had thought this species of orchid perished in colder climates.”

Crowley laughed, a rumbling chuckle that abruptly stopped short, his expression darkening, “They wouldn’t dare,” and he stroked one of the ghost orchid’s perfect, blemishless petals, noting with satisfaction when they began to shiver with terror beneath his touch. 

It only took about fifteen more minutes for Mr. Fell to finish arranging his second bouquet. He seemed to choose the flowers at random, absentmindedly plucking a handful of pussy willows, whose cottony bulbs and branches complimented the rose’s crimson, followed by several stems of lavender and a plethora of pale lilies with deep violet centers. When completed, it bore resemblance to a wedding arrangement, though the colors were a shade too dark to be romantic in the traditional sense. 

When, at long last, Crowley found the courage to ask the bookseller if something was wrong, the man had the nerve to look surprised, and even turned the question around on him, asking with a slightly more wary edition of that hope and fear and anticipation he’d displayed during their first meeting why he might ever think such a thing. 

“It’s just…” And here Crowley almost lost his nerve, before reaching out to stroke one of the roses the bookseller now held so protectively in his arms. “It looks like a bouquet for mourning.” 

The reaction was instantaneous. Mr. Fell stiffened, his plastered-on smile becoming tremulous, shuddering like the vibrations of an earthquake through glass. He clutched the flowers tightly as his breathing climbed to a heightened pace, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his lips firmly closed as if whatever it was that was unraveling him from the inside could be contained. 

Filled with regret - _this is what you get for speaking your mind_ \- Crowley offered a hand in comfort, though he thought better of it when the tips of his fingers were only a hair's breadth away from brushing the bookseller’s shoulder and withdrew.

“Do you…” His throat felt unbearably dry, so he swallowed and tried again, putting as much bravado as he could muster into the words, “Would you like some company?” The bookseller was so startled by the offer that his eyes flew open, which was certainly a reaction, one which Crowley knew he’d have to make the most of, so he rushed on, “I’m not much but I’ve got an ear - two of them last I checked.” The tension in Mr. Fell’s body lessened, his shoulders coming down from where they’d hitched up to when he’d been struggling to keep himself from scattering into stardust. It was a start, but not enough. So the florist made one last offer, this one coming from deep inside, from a place not even divinity could touch, “You could come to my place, if you like.”

The suggestion spilled out like it’d been waiting to be released, and for a moment, Crowley reveled in the sense of rightness. Then the ruddy flush spreading through the bookseller’s apple cheeks became apparent. “Oh.” It took Crowley’s brain a moment to catch up to the full implications, but when it did, he began to think of how best to optimize his chances of being struck down by lightning on the spot. “ _Oh_. No, I didn’t mean- I just thought maybe you’d like a diversion.” At that, the bookseller’s reddened cheeks deepened to a striking scarlet. “Not _that_ kind of diversion, not that I wouldn’t be open to the idea, but we’ve kind of only just met and you’re…”

 _Grieving._

Even though it went unsaid, Mr. Fell sharply inhaled, his brows scrunched as though he’d suffered a physical blow. At this point, Crowley was near to the point of begging him to take his bouquet and leave. Clearly the only thing he was capable of was hurting the poor man. Perhaps someone else would be able to offer him comfort and companionship, someone who didn’t feel the need to stick their foot in their mouths every minute. But Mr. Fell wasn’t having it. He relaxed his facial muscles, smoothed out his lines, then said with a beatific smile, “Actually, why don't you come to mine?" Crowley stared at him, dumbstruck. The bookseller appeared rather pleased with himself. "After all, I visit your shop often enough. It’s only fair that you visit mine in return.” There was desperation curled around the edges of levity, grasping and wanting. 

Beneath the counter and out-of-sight, Crowley clenched and unclenched his hands. “That’s not precisely how, uh, customer service works, you know.” Something inside writhed and yowled at his hesitance to agree, but he gritted his teeth and forced it down. 

Amusement flitted over the bookseller’s features. “Fair’s fair.” 

Feeling lighter, Crowley leaned on his elbow, fixing the bookseller with a look of delight and awe. “You’re something else, Mr. Fell.”

The bookseller winced. “You don’t have to call me that,” he replied quickly, and would likely have been waving his arms to ward off the appellation had they not been otherwise occupied. “To be completely honest, I would much prefer you didn’t.” 

“Makes you feel old, does it? What would you like me to call you instead?”

“Aziraphale, if you please.” 

Crowley mouthed it, trying it out a letter at a time. A grin lit up his face, “Aziraphale it is, then.”

And when Aziraphale wasn’t looking, he muttered the holy name under his breath, memorizing the weight of it on his tongue, the shape of its syllables, and to his unending delight, discovered how much he truly liked the sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your lovely comments, kudos, and bookmarks! I was absolutely blown away and delighted by the response. 
> 
> This week's flowers include:
> 
> Cherry Blossoms - The Fragility of Life, Renewal  
> Roses (Dark Crimson) - Mourning  
> Orchids - Love, Beauty, Refinement  
> Lavender - Devotion, Royalty  
> Pussy Willow - Easter  
> Lilies (White) - Restored Innocence After Death, It's Heavenly To Be With You


	4. petrichor

Normally if Crowley so much as entertained the idea of leaving his shop, he would find himself becoming distracted, losing grip on the thought the way fingers slip through a cloud. And as he approached the entrance with that intent in mind, it occurred again. His mind grew unfocused, his feet itched with the urge to retreat, until suddenly there was a hand in his, pulling him forward. 

When Crowley was standing at the threshold, one foot outside and one foot inside, Aziraphale flicked the shop’s sign to **Closed** , a look of such triumphant satisfaction molding his kindly features it bordered on downright vindictive. At this point in time, the florist did not realize he was keeping company with a bookseller who endeavored not to sell a single book, thus it did not occur to him that such an expression may very well have been the unfortunate consequence of having the sort of terrible business ethic that led bookshops to close in the morning and open at odd hours in the night.

Actually, the florist hadn’t even noticed the action, since he was quite occupied with offering one final encouragement to his plants. “Any of you lot thinks about dropping a single leaf while I’m gone and,” he sneered darkly, his yellow eyes peering over the rims of his sunglasses to somehow stare into the very essence of the foliage and find it wanting, “you’ll be taking a swan dive into the garbage disposal!” With the lights flickering ominously and every one of the most beautiful, most vibrant, most lush plants in London petrified from their buds to their roots, the door fell closed, and for the first time in ages, Crowley stood outside his shop.

It was raining outside. 

Aziraphale stood under the canopy, his pale blue eyes twinkling with amusement, but instead of acknowledging him, Crowley stepped out from under the shelter of the canopy, his gaze locked on the roiling, bruise-purple sky. Arms outstretched, he tilted his head, allowing the rain to trace the crevices of his skin like a river running over rocks and through valleys. It soaked into his clothes and hair, weighing him down in a manner that felt grounding. There was a musty scent in the air, something like earth and oil and heat and tar all wrapped into one. It was pressing and warm, the scent of a hot summer day. Between the coolness from the sky and the warmth from the earth, Crowley couldn’t fathom why Aziraphale wanted to waste the opportunity by hiding under an umbrella. 

“Would you get under here?” Aziraphale snapped impatiently when Crowley refused to give up a perfectly good vantage point for the storm, which also happened to be the middle of the road. “What will you do if you come down with something?”

Clouds. There were so many clouds in the sky. From some secret place inextricable from the core of Crowley, a yearning sped to the forefront of his mind, so clear and vivid it fell from his lips with the effortlessness of a raindrop falling from the sky, “It would've been nice to see the stars.” Once the words were out, he knew they could never be retrieved, just as he knew instinctively that he would be paying for them with pain. He gritted his teeth against the spearing headache slicing through his skull as he clung to the desire, refusing to let it fade into the background. Refusing with every ounce of his will to let it be forgotten. 

Elsewhere, Aziraphale was speaking. Once the worst of the onslaught had faded, this time taking with it no more or less than it had brought, Crowley turned to the bookseller to find him standing empty-handed in the rain, white-blond curls flattened to his forehead, “Didn’t you have an umbrella a second ago?” 

Crowley shifted to follow his darting eyes and thus bore witness to a pair of soaked college-aged kids shouting as they sprinted through puddles on the sidewalk with the bookseller’s umbrella over their heads. And then there was Aziraphale, who was quickly becoming soaked to the bone and had the audacity to look rather pleased about.

“Come on, then,” Crowley said with a put-upon sigh as he lifted the side of his ebony jacket to provide the man with some protection from the rain. Several conflicting emotions crossed Aziraphale’s face before he ducked his head slipped under, and they walked in companionable silence for several blocks, Crowley shielding him as best he could. Every now and then, Aziraphale would glance guiltily up at him, an apology in his eyes, but it was only ever met with reassurance. After all, Crowley had been the one to go traipsing out into a late morning storm, and he couldn’t exactly get any wetter. 

At least one of them should remain a little dry if they could help it. 

By the time they were standing outside A.Z. Fell’s bookshop, which today had opened and closed at 9:30 AM, the downpour had become nothing more than a light drizzle. It took some fiddling with the keys before Aziraphale managed to get the door open, after which Crowley strode, cackling, into the shop; bow-legged in his wet, skintight pants and squelching with every step. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said with unnatural cheer, spurring the florist to throw a nervous glance over his shoulder with all the sheepishness of a child caught rummaging in the pantry for sweets, “do take off your shoes, dear. These are wood floors, you see, and I’d rather not spoil them.” 

Not liking the look of the angelic smile the bookseller was aiming his way one bit, Crowley yanked off his snakeskin shoes and grudgingly dumped them in a pile by the door. This was luckily enough to satisfy Aziraphale and he went into the back to retrieve a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of wine. Mid-day was a little early for them to be consuming copious amounts, but if the bookseller was counting on his guest to put a stop to it, he was about to be sorely disappointed. Crowley had never said no to a decent drink in his life and wasn't about to start.

An hour in and the pair of them were sprawled over the furniture. Aziraphale had an armchair that he’d sunk into after nearly downing the entire bottle of vintage wine by himself, while Crowley, who’d gotten a headstart on the whiskey, had thrown himself over the couch. “How do you hold your liquor so well?” He asked, though one might have been forgiven for thinking he was questioning the ceiling on its remarkable alcohol tolerance. To circumvent any potential misunderstanding, he twisted onto his side to elaborate, “No offense meant but, well,” his yellow eyes roved over the bookseller’s form, “you don’t exactly seem the type.”

Aziraphale’s mouth bunched to one side around the rim of his wineglass before stretching into something just a mite smug. “Years of practice.” 

The whiskey swirling in Crowley’s glass glittered in the lamplight, golden brown ambrosia. He swallowed what was left down in a single gulp, then cast his attention around the shop. There were stacks of books on the floor in no particular order, cluttering the aisles and making it impossible to walk around without tripping over _The Complete Works of Shakespeare_ or _The Importance of Being Earnest._

Besides the smell of glue and ink pervading the store, there was a whiff of sulfur.

“How much are these books, anyway?” Crowley waved a hand at the shelves full of first editions, not bothering to stand or even sit up. 

The bookseller scoffed. “More than you can afford, I’m sure.”

Arching a brow, Crowley peered at him over the tops of his glasses. “Why? For I am naught but an impoverished artiste?” The irony was that one would hardly call him wanting for funds. Had he truly wanted to purchase an expensive first edition, even one with a price made so exorbitantly high for the sole purpose of fending off potential buyers, he may have been able to, as his shop had experienced a healthy influx of funds for as long as he could remember. There were no monthly rent fees to consider. No utility bills. The faucet and plumbing and electricity worked flawlessly, just as they were expected to.

This was one of the unanticipated perks of working out of a building whose creators held no greater understanding of the inner workings of human finances than its tenant.

“That’s not quite what I,” he paused, sudden realization coming over him like sunlight drying up the last wisps of morning fog. “Forgive me, my dear. That was rather rude of me. If you would perhaps like to borrow one…”

Lips quirked with mischief, Crowley held up an aged manuscript, “Like this one?” Inside it was the original script for one of the greatest Shakespearian tragedies ever performed in the Globe, and beneath its cover page, the looping signatures of its playwright and Richard Burbage could be discerned. 

“Well, perhaps not that one, but _a_ book. I’m sure that could be arranged.” 

As comfortable as he was with the alcohol in his belly and the fireplace burning, Crowley felt himself beginning to drift off. Sinking deeper into the couch, he languidly closed a single eye while the other continued to observe, taking in the thousands of little ticks and tells that were so clearly on display. “And if I don’t return it?” 

He hadn’t known what sort of reaction he’d expected to see, only that the raw feeling, the sheer exposure staring back at him was blinding. Aziraphale gripped the sides of his armchair, stealing himself with a breath. “Then I’d simply have to visit you in your shop again and retrieve it. And while I was there… we could go stargazing, or maybe…”

“Out for crepes?” Crowley muttered, dazed. 

“Yes!” Aziraphale straightened in his seat, his form shining with such a bright, pure light that Crowley squinted in the glow. He frowned down at the empty whiskey glass on his hand, then poured himself another. “Exactly that.”

“Keep tempting me to shirk my responsi... responsssu... job like this and I’ll go out of business.” 

Naturally, this warranted protest. So it was with the dance that had been forgotten, and all the steps that were too ingrained by time and practice to be lost. “Tempting?! Me?” The bookseller sputtered, causing a grin to soften Crowley’s sharpened features as he watched the man perform a set of mental gymnastics worthy of a medal. “I - I would never… Why are you laughing?” His utter bafflement at the sound of Crowley’s quiet snickering only set him off again. After all, if Crowley was going to be spending more and more of his time confused and uncertain, at least he wasn’t in poor company.

It was about then that he decided he’d had enough of being horizontal, and so made to roll onto his stomach, a well-known precursor to standing up, but regrettably overestimated the size of the couch and thus ended up toppling off with a brief exclamation of surprise, before landing in a boneless, hissing heap on the floorboards. Aziraphale blinked dumbly down at him - more relaxed since the manuscript had long since returned to its proper place in his stock - then slowly began to chuckle, one hand cupped around his mouth as his eyes crinkled with mirth. His shoulders shook, his stomach folded at the middle while he tried in vain to suppress them for the sake of preserving his companion's dignity though, in truth, he needn't have worried.

Sunglasses lying crooked across the bridge of his nose and mouth agape, Crowley quieted, adopting the stunned, awe-filled silence better suited to the witnessing of a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your encouragement! And I see your theories, which are fantastic btw, but I really can't confirm anything without giving away what's about to happen, so keep 'em if you've got 'em and we'll see if you hit the nail on the head


	5. vigilance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces start to come together.

It was springtime in the florist’s shop, as it often was. Sprigs of lavender and sage bloomed beautifully, violets spread their petals, and the lilacs and purple hyacinth were in peak health. At this time, the shop was bustling with customers, for outside the shop’s walls it was summer, a wonderful time to let loved ones know how much they were cherished. 

Propped on his elbows, Crowley leaned over the counter to entertain a group of ladies who seemed more interested in making small talk than his wares, which was fine with him so long as they didn’t stay past closing. One of the women was a bit more forward than the others, taking the lead. She moved with confidence, and when she emulated the florist’s relaxed posture by resting her elbows on the counter, her painstakingly arranged tresses spilled over her shoulders to frame her figure-hugging red dress in ways that most men would have found of particular interest. 

Her companions hovered nearby, watching the interaction with delight. “Do you have plans this Sunday?” The woman tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “My friends and I attend church every weekend. We’d love to see you there. Maybe meet afterwards for drinks and,” her glittering red lips quirked to the side, “stimulating conversation.” One of her fingers stretched to brush his knuckles with the manicured edge of a nail, and she shivered at the contact, her pupils dilating.

Maintaining a polite smile, Crowley gently withdrew his hands from her reach. Since the woman had fallen quiet, one of her friends, the one with short brown hair and a heart-shaped face asked, “Are you married, Mr. Crowley?” 

Crowley smirked at the thought. “ _If I be married, then Go-_ ” Something blocked his throat on the last. Brow furrowed in confusion, he continued the quote regardless, ensuring that the odd hesitation went unnoticed, “ _has made an oyster of me._ ” 

“Then what manner of woman would be to your fancy,” tried the second friend, glancing pointedly at the lady in red. “Someone adventurous? Bold?”

“ _Rich he shall be_ ,” Crowley intoned, cocking his head as his voice fell seamlessly into the proper rhythm and cadence, “ _that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen him; fair, or I'll never look on him; mild, or come not near me; noble_ ,” his expression softened, “ _or not I for an angel_.” 

When he’d finished, the ladies clapped, though the woman in the red dress remained silent. There was a steady hum in the air now, growing in volume with each passing second. Resonating through the glass windows and clay pots. Dread swelled and crashed and curled within Crowley like a rising flood. For all that he tried to force it down, it was like plugging a river with bare hands. The fluorescent lights brightened, spiking the ever-present dull ache in his skull, and he exhaled through his teeth, watching his customers incredulously as they continued to mill through the shop without offering the blazing white fire above them more than a passing glance. 

Buzzing filled his head. Thousands of flies worth of buzzing-

“Mr. Crowley?” 

It was the anxious note in the girl’s voice, bordering on fear, that made him wrench his mind into focus. Something had changed about the lady in red. Her curls had adopted an ethereal radiance, her eyes flashed vivid silver, her skin shimmered with gold flakes, and any trace of the flirtatious nature she’d exhibited not a minute prior had been stamped out, replaced by an unfeeling, unflinching coolness. 

“Have any booksellers come to visit you in your quaint little shop?” She tilted her head to the side with the stiff, awkward movements of a being unused to muscle and sinew. 

Ignoring the warning gong that shook his bones at the sight of her, Crowley dug his nails into the counter, curls of plastic and wood spiraling out from his fingertips as he dragged his hands across the surface. It was the only concession he allowed himself, as otherwise his bearing was largely unchanged. It was, however, an admittedly large concession. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific,” he gritted out. “Booksellers drop by here all the time. Do you have any idea how many customers I have? Could hardly keep track of them all.”

“Aziraphale,” the thing wearing a person growled, enunciating each syllable. 

A terrified scream rang through the shop. 

Vines of ivy, already overgrown, had inched across the floor to catch and curl around the lady’s ankles, their leaves burning upon contact. Witnessing this put a sour taste in his Crowley’s mouth. He straightened his shoulders, set his jaw and stood firm.

This was a feat in itself since when her silver eyes fell on him again, his flesh began to tingle, as though the most exposed parts of it were dying under the heat of the sun. 

“Call them off.” 

Crowley clenched his fists, pressing his nails into his palms, and pushed at the mental block, the impenetrable wall that threatened to obliterate, and sank his claws into every inch he gained, scrambling for the knowledge that would end with everyone on his shop surviving. And it hurt. So much that he barely even noticed the drops of dark blood trickling from his nostrils. This time, when he smiled at the lady with silver eyes and gold-flecked skin, it was with the taste of copper bitter in his mouth. 

“No,” he drawled, thoroughly enjoying the sound of it.

“I’ll burn this infernal place to the ground.”

Behind her, the customers began to migrate towards the exit, their faces adopting a blank quality that Crowley recognized with a thrill. He held an open palm out to the frightened women still gathered around. “Ma’am, could I see your phone for a moment?” The young lady immediately handed her cellphone over. The screen lit up with the simple press of a button. “My, would you just look at the time?” He held out the phone for the lady in red to see, shaking it in front of her face with undisguised glee. “It’s already three o’clock.” 

Even as the woman’s face contorted into a hateful snarl, a haze fell over her eyes. Her and the ladies she’d walked in with moved towards the exit, only one of them aware in any capacity that it was not entirely in-line with their will, and the door slammed behind them, shutting out the retina-searing light that accompanied one rather forceful departure. 

A moment later, Aziraphale burst in, his coat singed and smoking. “Crowley! Are you alright?”

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Crowley greeted with all the warmth of one speaking into existence their favorite sounds. “Never better.” He swiped impatiently at the blood on his face, succeeding in spreading it further. “What’ll it be today?”

Aziraphale gave the shop a thorough once-over, sparing a heated glare for the ceiling, before allowing his shoulders to fall with a sigh. Instead of heading straight to the flowers, he stepped behind the counter, took Crowley by the elbow, and guided him towards the nursery. “First things first, let’s get you cleaned up, my dear boy.” 

The florist followed without resistance. 

Inside, the rescued bonsai had wilted. It tried to perk up at the sight of them, but struggled when so little water flowed through its roots. This was exactly why the downsized cherry tree had abandoned its former owner, which made Crowley feel all the more horrid at the sight of it. It was one thing to yell at a plant for disappointing him when he was meeting their needs, quite another for them to strive to meet his high expectations when they were dying from his neglect.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Aziraphale said when Crowley pushed away his ministrations to water the poor dehydrated thing. Orchids were like the cats and didn’t need quite so much attention to thrive, but he’d have to remember to drop some cubes in their pots when he got the chance. “You haven’t been around.”

“Where was I, then?” Crowley didn’t mean to snap, his golden-yellow eyes blazing to such a degree they’d melt his glasses if they weren’t somewhat infernal themselves at this point. It didn’t matter in the end, though. Aziraphale didn’t answer. 

He pressed a wet paper towel to Crowley’s face, moving his hand in strokes as he cleaned off oxygenless blood and oil-slick tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” When Aziraphale continued without pause, Crowley caught his wrist. “Why are you sorry?”

“I can’t say.” Crowley looked as though he were going to protest, so Aziraphale rushed on, “I wish I could.” He bowed his head, his hands gripping bundles of his waistcoat in his fists as he fought to get the words out without falling to pieces. “More than anything.”

Stuffing his questions for the moment, Crowley nodded and leaned back, running his fingers through his hair. Then he plucked the bloodied paper towel out of the bookseller’s grasp and tossed it into the bin across the room with a smirk. The stunt mildly cheered Aziraphale, which was ultimately what he’d been after, so with that out of the way, they stepped back into the main part of the shop, and this time, Crowley accompanied Aziraphale while he made his rounds, commenting idly on proper care and trivia about each of the plants they passed.

Interestingly, the bookseller’s first choice this time around was the ivy. He gathered it up in his arms as though holding a treasured pet, or perhaps a very good book, then added a sprig of fern and some acacia blossoms. Next, he grabbed a bushel of blue hyacinth, pressed it against a bundle of white heather that hung like bells, leaving only a stem of rose leaves and iris to complete the arrangement. 

As per their developing custom, Crowley made sure to wrap the bouquet in a tartan ribbon. “Honestly,” he said as he handed it over to the bookseller, “I think this suits you better.” Then he plucked a daffodil he’d secretly snagged during their stroll from his pocket and tucked it deftly behind Aziraphale’s ear. The bright yellow complimented the tan range of his outfit, the brightness of his eyes. 

And then Aziraphale pushed it towards him, letting the blossoms settle against Crowley’s jacket. For a moment, Crowley didn’t know whether to be touched or crushed. “Would you like to go on a walk in the park with me?” While he waited for an answer, his body shifting as though it were physically difficult for him to be still - which was fine since Crowley rather liked how effusive he was like this - Aziraphale reached with his free hand to fuss with the petals of the daffodil that stood out so starkly against his pale-blond hair.

“Sure.” Crowley cradled the bouquet, already thinking of the perfect vase for it. A vase that would most likely find itself in his possession before the night was done. “Let me check with the manager.” He paused to hold a short conversation in his head, then reported with a wink, “Manager says it’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The play Crowley quotes here is Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing_. It's one of the funny ones. 
> 
> Purple Lilacs - The First Emotions of Love  
> Daffodil - Unequalled Love, You're The Only One, The Sun Always Shines When I'm With You  
> Ivy - Wedded Love, Fidelity, Friendship, Affection  
> Fern - Magic, Confidence and Shelter  
> Acacia - Concealed Love  
> Blue Hyacinth - Constancy  
> White Heather - Protection, Wishes Come True  
> Rose Leaves - You May Hope  
> Iris - Your Friendship Means So Much To Me
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. breakage

Since Aziraphale couldn’t drive and Crowley didn’t own a car, they hailed a taxi to St. James Park. It afforded them the opportunity to skirt the high black gates of Buckingham Palace, admiring the landscaping with practiced eyes, the undulating waves of yellow and red buds that swayed at the slightest breath of wind. Each of them were content to glimpse the procession of the Horse’s Guard from a safe distance while armed with strawberry and vanilla ice cream.

Crowley had barely glanced at his popsicle when Aziraphale had passed it to him, too preoccupied with staring down a Clydesdale that looked very much as though it’d like nothing more than to stomp Crowley to death with its hooves. 

By and by, they made their way through the crowds to the Blue Bridge. A group of ducklings swam in lazy circles underneath, their tiny bodies fluffy with down. Aziraphale stepped away for a moment to purchase bread for the pair of them from a kindly woman on the bench, then returned to find Crowley being accosted by a drake. It raised speckled wings and beat them, making itself look larger and more intimidating as it spat and hissed at the well-dressed man in sunglasses, who watched the display with impassive bemusement until the fowl made a go for his shins. 

Crowley leapt to avoid the vicious, and in his opinion unwarranted, pecking. This led to him jostling the couple next to him, embarrassing him further. It wasn’t necessarily that he had to look perpetually unruffled as appearing uncool in any capacity did serious damage to his ego, so once he righted himself, Crowley adopted a firm stance against the enraged drake and theatrically flapped his arms to get the thrice-cursed bird to waddle off before Aziraphale returned to see him about to throw hands with a duck. 

Once the drake was successfully driven off, Crowley straightened to his full height, hands propped on his hips with a self-satisfied air. “Well done, Crowley!” Aziraphale called out, his hands full with slices of bread. “You certainly scared the wits out of that nasty drake.” He had a kindly way of saying it, but it was the kindly way of a school teacher. Crowley half-expected the bookseller to produce a sticker for his efforts.

Hands shoved into his shallow pockets, Crowley resolutely refused to make eye contact with anyone on the bridge. “Saw that, did you?” He took the piece of bread Aziraphale had offered him, tore off the top and tossed it into the lake where it was promptly swarmed by five little ducks. The drake from the bridge, for some reason, couldn’t seem to swim within nibbling distance of the bread. Upon seeing its distress, Crowley cracked a mean-spirited smile, flashing needle-thin fangs to further rile the squawking creature.

“Oh, do be nice, Crowley,” Aziraphale chided, throwing a section of crust for the poor fowl. It stared at the peace offering with suspicion for a moment before greedily gobbling it up. “These ducks are only trying to protect their young. They don’t know as well as I… well… that is to say, they don’t know you very well.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sounds fair. ’s not like the thought of swallowing one of those fluffy buggers has never crossed my mind." One of the ducklings turned up its beak to chirp cutely at their lovely bread dispensers, and the florist winked teasingly at the little puff of feathers, then balled up a small wad of bread and dropped it right in front of its breast plumage. 

While the duckling chewed, Crowley peered through his periphery to find Aziraphale regarding him with an inscrutable look, the way someone might if they were struggling to answer a question they hadn’t quite heard, or to answer a question that hadn’t been asked. He was doing his best to ignore a sudden, uncomfortable squeezing sensation in his chest when a poodle on a leash made a rather heroic attempt to chew through his leg. 

“Animals don’t seem to like me all that much,” Crowley noted wryly sometime after Aziraphale had mysteriously produced a First Aid kit from the ether. They were seated on the rusty-colored benches, having assured the owner of the poodle that there was no harm done. Just a nip, really. Nothing a band-aid and some disinfectant wouldn’t fix.

And this was true to an extent. The problem lay in the peculiar properties of Crowley’s blood. As good fortune would have it, though, none of the humans remained interested in examining the bite for long, and soon, everyone returned to their activities and conversations, allowing Aziraphale to care for the wound without disruption. 

It was rough being outside, Crowley decided. But the sun was warm on his face and having the bookseller fussing over him, mouth pursed with an indentation forming between his brows as he focused intently on cleaning out the bite and wrapping it, wasn’t so bad either. He enjoyed watching the children coo over the ducklings, the pet owners who allowed strangers to run their hands through silky coats, rub behind pointed ears, and scratch under chins. Even as he watched, he felt _less_. 

Less frustration. Less anger. Less anxiety, fear, sadness. 

He _liked_ being a part of this bustling, thriving world that existed outside his floral shop.

Once he was all patched up, the stinging pains in his calf dulled to nothing in the face of fingertips brushing lightly over his skin, Aziraphale cajoled him into taking a long stroll around the lake. Wordlessly, he positioned himself by Crowley’s left side, placing him between the florist and anything else that might like to take a chunk out of him, which was sweet, even if it left Crowley feeling unbalanced and unsettled by the shift. He didn’t appreciate having Aziraphale so close to the crowd and it must have translated into his posture, because the bookseller gripped his arm, muttering softly, “Let me stand guard this time, dear. It used to be my job, you know,” which didn’t make sense, yet Crowley felt some of the tension bleed out of him. He remembered to breathe. 

By the time the sun was dipping below the horizon, the ducks were thoroughly stuffed, and the stars were out. This wasn’t the smattering of pinprick lights seen breaking through the sky in city centers, but clusters upon clusters of them shining through the shadowy veil of space. Constellations and planets and, Crowley noticed with a thrill, _Polaris_. 

“Did you know,” he started when they were making their way out of the park, long after the rest of their company had left, “that sailors used to use _Polaris_ ,” he pointed out the star, “to navigate when they were out at sea?” He stared up at the night sky, adoration and aching shaping his features into a masterpiece of wistfulness and transcendental beauty. They were standing outside the gates now. “They call it, _The North Star_. Say it’s the brightest star in _Ursa Minor_ , which is like a bear or something. Doesn’t matter. The point is,” his fingers flexed, dark lenses and golden eyes reflecting galaxies, “imagine how clever they must have been. Sailing in a big, black nothing and they see that star - that star right _there_ \- and they know - they _know_ , Aziraphale - they’re going to find the way home.”

Although it was dark out, Crowley didn’t need the lamplights to see how his words affected the bookseller. “Did your friend make _Polaris?_ ” He asked gently.

Aziraphale placed his hands on the gate. It was locked until it wasn’t, swinging open with a screech. “No, that was,” his eyes flicked skyward, overlapping stars dancing over their surfaces, “a mutual benefactor of ours.” Then he stepped outside the park, crossing the pavement to where a 1926 Bentley waited patiently for their arrival. “She would be pleased to know you admire Her work,” he finished awkwardly, tapering off towards the end when he realized that Crowley was paying him the absolute minimum amount of attention now that he’d caught sight of the pristine vehicle. 

Unlearning what we know is, after all, a much more difficult task than remembering, and some things are never truly forgotten in the first place.

Crowley approached the car reverently, his arms stiff and motionless at his sides. He turned to Aziraphale, “We should steal it.”

“Absolutely not! It’s… Why, you could damage it! What would - _oh my_ \- what would the owner of this lovely vehicle think if I - if you - if _we_ allowed so much as a scratch?”

“Listen, I’ve got an idea. We steal the car-”

“ _You_ steal the car," Aziraphale told him resolutely. "I’ll have no part in it.”

“I steal the car,” Crowley agreed, “and then I drive back here in the morning. No one’s the wiser and Bob’s your uncle.

“He most certainly is _not_.”

"Look,” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, losing patience, “do you honestly want to walk home? In the middle of the night?” He didn’t even pause long enough for Aziraphale to answer before barreling on while gesturing at the passenger door, “Me, either. Let’s go.” Aziraphale remained rooted to the pavement, fretting. At this rate, they’d still be at this when the park reopened in the morning. An idea came to Crowley. A revelation. “You know what?” He laid a hand on the car window. “Why don’t we ask the Bentley what it thinks?”

“Crowley, that is a car. It is not a sentient being. Cars cannot-” Aziraphale broke off upon seeing the driver’s side door swing open wide in invitation. 

Crowley smugly opened the passenger side for him, “After you.”

Aziraphale shot him a narrow-eyed look of exasperation before slipping into the seat, looking for all the world as though he’d be more comfortable if Crowley had asked him to lie in the middle of the road and subsequently ran him over. 

Once Crowley was behind the wheel of the car, breathing in the scent of leather and cigarettes, his amusement faded, replaced by something so bright and brilliant and right it exploded behind his lids with the ferocity of a supernova. 

This was _his_ car. 

And not just in the sense that he’d stolen it.

Sounds of fluttery panic from the seat next to him startled him from his reverie. He’s certain that Aziraphale could see that he was a man made of glass, angles and jagged edges destroying themselves when he moved, cutting, slicing, shattering. Jutting under his ribs, piercing all his soft parts. 

As far back as he could remember, he has never once been wanted. Whenever he pushed enough to conjure an image of his parents, his mind provided snapshots of displeased, faceless figures condemning him to a life spent searching for something to fill the endless void inside. The stars were a start towards that end, somehow. Knowing he could watch the night sky for hours was a comfort, and finding his Bentley again brought him one step closer to filling the emptiness, but it wasn’t enough. There was still something missing. 

Vital. Intrinsic. Inextricable.

Crowley considered the ache in his chest, the emptiness, and thought of twin stars, so close they appeared as one. Of shadows and light, tails and heads, and the dark side of the moon. 

Would Aziraphale think he was insane, he wondered, if Crowley told him he was beginning to suspect he’d lost his other half? 

Ignoring his companion’s fussing, Crowley started up the Bentley with a grimace, the engine roaring ecstatically to life beneath his fingertips. Momentarily distracted from his gloomy introspection, he gave the Bentley’s dashboard a fond pat. 

They traveled in silence, Aziraphale visibly wanting to pry and Crowley clearly unwilling to share. The bookseller took to staring out the window and fidgeting, filling the pauses with motion. After watching the lamplights flicker past for a time, he took to staring at the speedometer with a sigh. “Honestly, dear, can you not drive just a smidge faster?”

“I’m already going 10 over the speed limit, angel,” Crowley snapped. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not get a ticket in a stolen car.” While Crowley was certain that the Bentley was undeniably his, he sincerely doubted that the officer in charge of his arrest would agree that a gut feeling was just as valid, if not more so, than proof of purchase and registration. On top of that, there was a growing sense of dread creeping up on him regarding the existence, or rather non-existence, of his driver’s license. 

Wait. Hold on. Backtrack. Rewind. 

_What_ did Crowley just call him? 

Could he play it off? Aziraphale referred to him with endearments all the time without ever truly meaning anything by it, so why couldn’t he? 

He opened his mouth, still not entirely sure if he was going to try for casual or act as though nothing of note had occurred, when the bookseller made a choked sound. He was staring out the window, one hand clapped over his mouth. Somehow, seeing that hurt made the void in Crowley’s chest twist. These tears weren’t meant for him. They were meant for a man who claimed he’d created the stars, who loved flowers and astronomy and… 

Maybe they were looking for missing pieces in the wrong places. 

All Crowley had ever wanted was to brighten up the day of the man who’d left his shop with the saddest flower arrangements he’d ever crafted, but he was being selfish now. Monopolizing his time, his affections. Neither of them were ever going to move forward like this. 

He pressed down on the gas pedal, his gaze locked on the road ahead as the speedometer continued to climb. Drivers turning into their lane suddenly changed their minds, opting to remain where they were until the Bentley had raced past. A cop waiting around the bend in a cleverly constructed speed trap attempted to pursue them, only to realize his car refused to budge. Instead of a siren, an eerie soft and slow rendition of Queen’s _Another One Bites The Dust_ flooded his speakers.

Desperate for something to latch onto, Crowley went grasping for straws, “So, Aziraphale,” the bookseller acknowledged him without turning from the window, “were your parents religious by chance?” When he abruptly stiffened, Crowley tried to explain, “It’s just, with a name like that I thought…” Too late he realized he should have just put on the radio.

“I suppose you could say my parents were religious,” Aziraphale conceded. Head bowed, he played with the cuffs of his sleeves. “What about... yours?”

Crowley kept his eyes on the road, pretending he didn’t notice the bookseller’s furtive, cautious glances. “I never really got to know my father,” it sounded right when he said it. It also sounded wrong, “and as for my mother,” a frown pulled at his lips as he struggled to picture her in his mind, a smile or a laugh. “She put me up for adoption when I was young.” He and his siblings had been discarded. The unruly bunch sent off to become someone else's problem. “Don’t think she much wanted me and I never figured out why ‘cept maybe I asked too many questions.” A gusty sigh slipped out from between his teeth, wistful and resigned in equal measures. “Strange thing to get rid of a kid for, that.” 

Crowley started at the weight of a stranger’s hand on his arm, then looked down to see Aziraphale’s arm on his. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Aziraphale was saying with an earnestness that made the platitude ring with truth. “I’m sure... I’m sure She loves you, Crowley. In her own Ineffable way.” Ineffable. Unknowable. Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale’s touch. “But… Oh, confound it all!” It was the unexpected outburst that convinced Crowley to keep listening. He peered at the bookseller over the rims of his dark glasses, his brows raised in surprise as Aziraphale continued with every inch of his heart, “You don’t deserve what’s happened. I am sorry,” the last was not directed at him, but at the car roof with a reproachful air, “but it’s true.”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, the hand still on Crowley’s arm tensing. Whatever it was he was afraid of, it never came to pass, and after a minute, Aziraphale tentatively peered at him, relief and concern surpassing fear as he scanned Crowley’s features for any glimpse into his inner thoughts. It was touching to be so cared for, and a little embarrassing. 

“Come now,” Crowley said with a cough. “It’s not much of a date if all we do is apologize to each other, and it’s ancient history, anyway.” 

“A date?” 

The air rushed out of Aziraphale with the force of an embrace, his happiness shining through him like a beacon. As quickly as it appeared, the elation faded, his expression changing to one so wretched it could fill the oceans with soft, unspoken apologies and keep rising past the shore.

It was no less than Crowley had expected, really. 

When they were parked outside the bookshop in Soho, Aziraphale exited the car. Crowley didn’t move. He sat behind the wheel, waiting for the bookseller to close the door and shuffle inside. But he didn’t. He waited for Crowley to speak, standing awkwardly on the pavement in his tan-colored waistcoat, his gaze flicking towards the door as though he’d like nothing more than to invite Crowley inside for a drink.

_I remind you of him, don’t I? Your friend, that is. The one you always think of when you’re with me._

_I can wait for you, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to tell me anything._

_I have time. I have forever. Might as well spend it loving you._

Everything about their relationship was a sham. Aziraphale was clinging to an echo, and Crowley was empty enough that he could be filled with anything. Obviously, then, the best thing to do would be to find something else they could have in common, something he didn’t share with the man who’d broken Aziraphale’s heart. 

He’d never been religious, or maybe he’d been but in an interactive way. Why the floods? Why the fire and brimstone? Why did bad things happen to good people? That sort of thing. 

He wanted answers. He hadn’t wanted to know before. All this time he’d been accepting things without questioning, but that wasn’t really like him, was it? 

“Goodnight, angel,” Crowley said softly, cutting off whatever it was Aziraphale had been attempting to say. He shut the passenger’s side door, then drove into the night, leaving the bookseller to stand alone under the flickering lamplight outside his shop. 

It was beginning to rain. 

Instead of returning to his own shop, Crowley chose to walk the streets of Soho, the tips of his fingers stuffed in his pockets, letting the drizzling raindrops soak into his clothes until his body trembled from the cold. Russet strands clung to his neck and forehead. It hardly mattered. 

He couldn’t remember his mother’s face.

Whatever angle he approached his memories from, they were unclear, indistinct. The clearest memories he had were of spending time with Aziraphale outside the shop. The rest of it didn’t seem real. He spent the rest of the night reframing questions to exclude himself.

Not _‘Why can’t I leave the shop?’_ but _‘Why is the shop difficult to leave?’_

It didn’t provide him any answers, but at least he could focus on the question. This was how, for the first time, Crowley was able to remain awake and aware when at the stroke of midnight he blinked to find himself standing in the floral shop once more, a mister in his hand. At ten minutes to opening. 

Acting on impulse and rage, Crowley grabbed the cash register off the counter and chucked it at the shop’s display window, taking satisfaction from the destruction it wrought until the shattered pieces rejoined and reformed before his eyes. Within seconds, the window didn’t even have so much as a scratch, and the register was back in its rightful place on the counter.

When the door rang to announce the first customer of the day, Crowley unraveled. He howled incoherently at the visitor, tearing off his glasses to expose fully yellow irises and slit pupils before hissing through his teeth, “Get. Out.” By the second, he was beginning to regret how he’d lashed out at the first, but upon seeing it was one of the women from the previous day, an idea bloomed in his mind. He sidled up to the lady with the heart-shaped face, inquiring after her friend, Ms. Glow-and-Sparkle, who was apparently still recovering from an unexpected onset of fatigue, then casually mentioned that he’d been thinking of going to church later on. “After all,” he managed with a grimace that could pass for a smile in a dark room, “you ladies did make the whole experience sound awfully tempting.” As he’d hoped, she took the bait, offering to accompany him for the early morning mass. 

With that settled, he interlocked elbows with her, a bounce in his step, gestured for her to lead the way, then followed her out the shop to freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end now. Thank you so much for your support!


	7. resurgence

There are some who would believe an activity as undoubtedly mundane as doing inventory in a bookshop to be rather dull. As Aziraphale walked up and down the stocked shelves, however, he found himself entranced by leather covers, every dent and ding and scratch a memory. There were scriptures and prophecies, their pages yellowed by time, that crinkled pleasantly beneath his fingers. It would have been easy enough to simply Know how many of his borrowed textbooks and references had returned at the semester’s end, but hardly sporting. No, he’d much prefer to run uncalloused hands over the ancient spines of the books he’d nearly lost during a bombing in 1941, just to make certain they were there. 

Hidden in his shop, far from any noisome humans with the audacity to attempt the purchase of books in a bookshop, were manuscripts and tablets salvaged from the fires of the Library of Alexandria, and though Aziraphale hadn't unearthed them in ages, he was certain that if he were so inclined, they would smell of brimstone, sulfur, and copious amounts of wine.

Perhaps doing inventory was just another way to torture himself. After all, the demon’s presence was everywhere. It was in the pressed yellow acacia hidden beneath the cover of a gifted novel from long ago, in scrawled notes, in the unwrinkled and perfectly straightened pillows on Aziraphale’s couch. There were traces of him in the undisturbed blankets stuffed in the closet, and the single wine glass in the sink. 

Aziraphale felt him in his absence, so strongly that no matter how many months passed, he still kept an ear out for a snarky remark, an amused snort, a fond huff. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he could almost see Crowley sprawled over the cushions, a lazy smile on his lips. Living with a ghost has a tendency to make one little more than a wandering ghost themselves, going through the motions of a life once lived and lived well. 

Today, though, the angel had the afternoon to look forward to. He’d invite Crowley out to the park for a picnic, or to the movies, or even back to the flat above his shop for drinks and conversation. It was regrettable that he would have to tempt the florist away from his work once more, but drastic times called for drastic measures. The humans could very well find their exotic flowers elsewhere.

As deeply entrenched in his thoughts as he was, the angel didn’t notice his ansaphone was recording a message until the long silence was interrupted by a pained, “Aziraphale, please. Something’s happened.” There was a gurgling sound, wet and choking. “I need help.” 

Aziraphale snatched the phone from its cradle, thoughts of ancient tomes banished for the moment, but heard only a dial tone. There was no message on the machine, but Aziraphale had seen demons do such things at Warlock’s birthday party and did not doubt for a second that Crowley had reached out to him, or that he was somehow in a world of trouble. 

Closing his eyes, Aziraphale expanded his senses past the soporific warmth of his shop, out to the bustling streets of Soho, where a deluge of very human panic nearly overwhelmed him. With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale followed the chaos, crossing time and space to find himself standing in a church. Sunlight streamed in through stain glass windows, throwing a rainbow on the aisle, alighting dust particles in the air, yet the angel felt a horrid chill race down his spine at the sight of a priest sprinkling holy water over an empty pew, all the while uttering phrases in Latin in a string of fervent, fragmented prayers. Those of his flock that remained clung to each other, their eyes blown wide with terror, and the angel unthinkingly followed the outpouring of their fear to the third seat from the aisle. Beads of holy water clung to its surface, as well as an aura of infernal energy, twisted in confusion and agony. 

Ignoring the humans that warned him off, Aziraphale placed his hand upon the seat, his senses extending once more, and found to his immense relief that Crowley’s aura hadn’t ended beneath the sprinkling of an aspergillum. It had rippled space to escape, slipping through the cracks of reality in a desperate bid for survival, and left a trail - the remnants of a demonic miracle. For an angel that’s been following this exact brand of miracle - oh, he’d never actively sought Crowley out before his accidental discorporation, had never needed to, but he’d always known where he was - the rest was as easy and natural as spreading his wings. 

That left only the priest and his flock to deal with. 

Several drops of holy water sprinkled Aziraphale, clinging to his cheek and ear. He turned to give the young priest waving the silver implement an arch look. The aspergillum ran dry. “Well, everyone,” Aziraphale clapped his hands, “it’s been very nice meeting you all. Now, if you would all just forget about my friend and carry on with your day,” the sounds of distress around him came to an abrupt end as the humans blinked and shook themselves as though waking from a dream, “that would be lovely.”

Then, before they became too alert, he snapped his fingers, vanishing from their sight to follow the traces of demonic energy. He reappeared, solid and whole, in a modern flat in Mayfair. He glanced around the darkened space, taking in the throne and marble table with bemusement. Crowley always had a knack for holding onto souvenirs, but surely the demon wouldn’t have absconded with such a large prop from the Globe Theatre production of _Hamlet_? 

“I kind of want to say that throne is gaudy,” a heretofore unnoticed figure rasped, its form huddled in the shadows, “but something tells me I’d be shooting myself in the foot if I did.” 

“Crowley!” Now that Aziraphale was looking, he could see tendrils of steam curling from the demon’s ruined jacket and he rushed to his side with a cry, kneeling to assess the extent of the damage. His fingers flitted over raw burns and sores scattered over the demon’s cheek, one of them so severe Aziraphale could spot the white bone of his jaw through the wound. Less severe, though surely not pleasant, were the angry blisters decorating Crowley’s forehead. 

“I tried going to church,” Crowley said by way of explanation. While Aziraphale worked diligently to remove his snake shoes without peeling off the flaking layer of seared and blackened flesh coating his soles, Crowley went utterly silent, the blood draining from his face until the screaming appendages were quieted by ointment and wrapped in bandages that would never stick. “You should have seen the look on their faces when I started steaming like a cooked lobster,” he chuckled darkly when it was done, sounding like his old self again. “Then I, uh, needed to leave and the next thing I knew I was here.” He shifted away from Aziraphale, then reached to take off his sunglasses, revealing golden eyes with thin pupils and not even a sliver of white. In the flat’s dim lighting, they glowed. Crowley took one look at Aziraphale’s face, pursed his lips, then averted his gaze. “They’re not normal. I thought maybe… but I’m not… What am,” he frowned, brow knitting. Once the dull haze attempting to obscure his mind faded, he desperately tried again, harsh words crowding each other in his haste to speak them, “There’s a _thing_ sitting in front of you, Aziraphale. What is it?” Aziraphale found Crowley’s hands and clasped them between his own, suffusing them with thoughts of how important, how wanted, how loved he was. 

Some of it must have reached it, because Crowley gasped, his efforts to pull away dwindling to a feeble, half-hearted tug. “You’re not a thing,” Aziraphale assured him, a watery smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’re my best friend.” 

It was all that really mattered. Crowley had been trying to tell him that for centuries.

“Wait,” Crowley sputtered, “ _I’m_ your friend?” Aziraphale nodded, then gestured for Crowley to hold out his arms so he could tug off the jacket before the holy water could seep through the fabric. “So, this whole time, when you were talking about that friend of yours that likes astronomy and botany and made the stars… that was supposed to be me?”

Aziraphale regarded him kindly, “I should think that would be rather obvious by now, my dear,” and vanished the jacket with a snap of his fingers. Crowley gawked at the space where his favorite jacket used to be, then stiffened. A forked tongue slipped out from between his lips, scenting the air. He climbed wearily to his feet, opting to brace against the wall for support instead of accepting Aziraphale’s offered aid. Contact with holy water had drained him. It would take days before his infernal energy could fully replenish himself, but when Aziraphale tried to tell him to rest Crowley shook him off, slipping through sliding glass doors to step purposely into the makeshift conservatory.

He stepped towards an assortment of flora in the soil then, pressing his temples, began to name the flowers rapidly under his breath, “Monkshood.” Violet petals spread like butterfly wings upon his ghosting touch. “Begonias. Orange lilies. Basil.” He shook his head as if to clear it, then glanced back at Aziraphale. “You didn’t plant these, did you?” When Aziraphale confirmed that he hadn’t, extinguishing the modicum of hope Crowley had clung to, he fetched his glasses from his breast pocket with a resigned sigh, “Right. Next question,” and slipped them on, “do you have a weapon?”

The floor beneath their feet trembled until the vibrations split the stone, giving rise to cracks that flowed with molten lava. Spikes of hair shaped like horns rose from the melted rock, followed by a young man or something that looked like one. Smears of ash beneath his eyes accentuated effeminate features and an intelligent gaze lit with cruel humor. The clothes he wore were oversized to the point of being fashionable in a grunge sense. It was something Crowley would have been better able to appreciate if the kid hadn’t just popped up from the ground like a meerkat on a sugar high. 

“You’re not going to slither your way out of this one, Snake.” The probably-not-a-boy pulled an ancient rusted dagger from behind his back. Aziraphale went preternaturally still at the sight of it. “Heaven and Hell are finally cooperating now that they’ve got a common enemy. I suppose congratulations should be in order for you both.” He stretched his mouth too wide, releasing a high, cruel facsimile of laughter that echoed unpleasantly through the flat. 

“Hello, Xaphan,” Aziraphale greeted with a tight veneer of politeness. “I’d like to say it’s a pleasure but we both know that I, as an angel, cannot.”

“Not here for you,” Xaphan sneered. “Leave the demon to me and not a single one of your pretty white feathers needs to burn.”

Crowley stared blankly at the intruder. “Aren’t you at least going to tell me what I’ve done that warrants a death sentence?” It was a last-ditch bid for information, as well as a stall tactic. He hadn’t truly expected it to work, and on that he wasn’t disappointed.

“You know what you’ve done,” Xaphan snapped, aiming the blade at Crowley’s chest. “You know why I have to do this. If you had just stayed in your cage like a good pet, Heaven and Hell would have left the angel alone. That was the deal you made with Lord Beelzebub.” Crowley opened his mouth to argue that none of what the kid was saying was making any sense, when a sudden shove meant he was intimately acquainted with a mouthful of leaves. 

“Well, _I_ didn’t agree to it,” Aziraphale shouted, his back filling out Crowley’s vision as he stood protectively between him and the rusted dagger that didn’t seem so much to glow as to suck the light from the room at point of contact. The kid’s brows shot up, startled by the unexpected resistance. “And I’m not wholly convinced Crowley did, either. In fact, I very much doubt it!” 

Spitting the taste of chlorophyll from his mouth, Crowley blurted out of frustration, “Would someone please just explain to me what’s going on?” Aziraphale spared him a worried glance, but the kid had heard him, too. His jaw slackened in confusion. His searching gaze met Crowley’s, expecting to find something that wasn’t there. Then he relaxed, blowing out a breath that ended in a snicker.

“Oh.” Xaphan sounded delighted. “You’re still _blessed_.” There was a stretched second where the space he inhabited hiccuped, and his body split into three duplicates of itself, each one of them grinning, “This’ll be easy, then,” before rushing forward with their identical blades, intent on plunging them into Crowley’s ribs and punching his heart full of holes. And for all that Crowley didn’t expect to be getting out of this alive, there wasn’t a version of him in any reality that could stand back and let Aziraphale die protecting him. He attempted to jump in front, only to be buffeted by an invisible force that felt remarkably like feathers. He was enveloped, protected, sheltered, and yet he couldn’t accept it, so he did the only thing he could do with sharp-toothed duplicates surrounding his friend, with all his questions and his wants and the pressing need to save just out of his reach.

He pushed. 

While Aziraphale grappled with one copy, holding the others off with that same invisible force that prevented Crowley from fighting at this side, he dug deep within his own mind for the last time, and found with the darkness a wall of holy fire that burned with a violet aura, like a signature. Buzzing crowded his skull when he approached it, but instead of backing down, Crowley shed everything he knew about himself, and became something else. What he became did not exist within a scope that humanity could comprehend, with a size beyond measure and blurring, fluctuating edges that expanded wings created from the birth and death of galaxies to the furthest expanses where the archangel’s blessing waited, flames rising and springing and biting at their essence. 

More had been taken, but much had been gained. They imagined they were strong enough to fight a hundred demons, and when they returned to the outside world to find the imp posed to strike Aziraphale from behind, their corporeal form responded in kind. From one blink to the next, Crowley was no longer lost. He was a serpent, and he launched himself at the imp that had managed to breach the angel’s defenses, the one that had gotten it into his head to thrust a demonic blade through vulnerable wings, and took him by the throat with fangs that relentlessly and mercilessly pumped venom into imp while he writhed and screamed, clawing at the snake in a desperate attempt to tear it from his flesh. 

To his credit, while he couldn’t save himself, the imp managed to plunge the cursed blade into the serpent’s striped underbelly before his corporation burst into flames. The corruption sunk in through the serpent's scales, coursing through him while the demon trapped within his coils burned to ashes. Had it not been for the blessing implanted within the serpent, he may have joined his fate, but instead the corruption found a new target, a wall of holy fire that stretched to eternity and smothered it, allowing that which was never meant to be contained to expand without end, to fully be. 

Exhaustion swept in to fill the void where the blessing and the curse had canceled each other out. Drowsily, Crowley lifted his head, fangs still bared and dripping, to find two additional piles of smoking ash on the floor. The angel and his plants appeared unharmed, though Aziraphale’s waistcoat was singed again, and the serpent yawned, regarding Aziraphale with a sleepy gaze when he knelt at his side, wringing his hands and fretting, “Oh my! I’m sure this must all be very confusing, but I promise you I can explain everything.” Amused, Crowley rolled that once over in his head, then sluggishly transformed, growing limbs and compacting his body until it was decidedly human, if only in appearance. Aziraphale gasped, uttering a wounded sound at the sight of him slumped against the wall with a demonic dagger lodged in his abdomen. 

With a hand wrapped around the blade to keep it from inflicting more damage when he leaned forward, Crowley muttered, "I hate having to do that. Always afraid I'll forget how to change back," and tenderly cupped Aziraphale's cheek, greeting the stunned Principality with a long overdue, "Hello, Angel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am positively overwhelmed by your kindness. Thank you for reading and for all of your wonderful feedback. Have a nice day!
> 
> Yellow Acacia - True Friendship, Secret Love  
> Monkshood - Beware, A Deadly Foe Is Near  
> Begonia - Beware, Be Cautious  
> Lily (Orange) - Hatred  
> Basil (Greek/Roman) - Hatred  
> Basil (Italy) - Love/Tragic Love


	8. antithesis

Crowley had known for aeons that not all angels were good.

The waters that had flooded Mesopotamia had been heralded by the singing of an angelic choir. And on that note, Sodom and Gomorrah hadn’t been razed to the ground by Hellfire. They’d been purified by the holiest of flames, brought low unto the earth so that they could be born and raised anew. 

Even that hadn’t prepared him for how far the Archangels were willing to go. 

From his head to his shoulders to his limbs, nothing seemed to fit right. It was as though he’d been put through the spiritual equivalent of a meat grinder than molded into something vaguely Crowley-shaped. The corporation was doing its best to accommodate for his essence as it stitched itself back together, no doubt bearing scars from the celestial lobotomy it’d suffered. His body had grown accustomed to the cardboard cut-out of him, the version that was restricted, contained so that it didn’t quite fill the corners. There was some rapid expansion work in order on the metaphysical plane, which meant that pressing his temples wouldn’t coat his fingers in molten metal, that his brain stem hadn’t been dug out with an ice cream scoop - it just felt that way. All of it was the result of his corporation doing its darndest to communicate the rejoining of body and essence through sensations that could be felt and understood by a being that was neither a serpent nor the remnant of firmament breathed into life. 

He thought of who Xaphan used to be, the fledgling that followed Lucifer’s crowd without any real conviction, only admiration and a desire to please. It’d been his stroke of brilliance that set Heaven ablaze when they Fell, but after seeing what he’d become, little more than Hastur’s immortal lackey, a demon that he could destroy as many times as he wanted without consequence, even Crowley couldn’t help feeling a stirring of pity for him. It helped that the dagger sticking out of his torso, while the most immediately concerning, had to be the least agonizing injury of the lot. 

Split a grain of rice down the middle over and over for a lifetime, and by the end of your days, there will still be rice to split. Teach your sons, your daughters, your grandchildren to do the same, and they will repeat the act until the end of their days, too. But there will still be rice.

That is to say that there was still a part of Xaphan that hadn’t always been an imp. It was just so small and inconsequential after all his innumerable divisions and destructions that hardly mattered. If the Serpent of Eden hadn’t ever spoken to the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, would a similar fate have befallen him? 

Some musings didn’t bear thinking about. 

As per the angel’s orders, Crowley remained entirely still until Aziraphale waved a hand over the weeping sores marring his cheek to remove any last traces of Holy Water from the puckered, angry flesh. In his periphery, the motion was a blur, a concentration of intent, and he flinched in spite of himself. Aziraphale froze as though his time had stopped, not even daring to breathe until Crowley, gritting his teeth against a wave of agony emanating from his middle, nodded roughly. Aziraphale hesitated a moment longer before getting on with it, and the pain abruptly receded. Angels couldn’t heal damage inflicted by blessed things, but they could remove their presence, sending them elsewhere so that the wounds could be allowed to heal. A vain whisper in the back of Crowley’s mind noted with no small amount of relief that there was a very real, very good chance his corporation wouldn’t bear any physical scars after this. If he were being uncharacteristically honest, he rather liked the way he looked. It’d grown on him over the centuries. 

Once that was done, Crowley’s demonic healing abilities redirected themselves to the soles of his feet, discarding and repairing damaged cells as though the burns were the result of an exceedingly bad sunburn. Aziraphale rolled his pants up to the ankle to give the accelerated healing a bit more breathing room, exposing it more fully to the balming coolness of the conservatory. After catching sight of the bandage wrapped around Crowley’s lower leg, he gingerly untied it to see if it needed redressing, but there was only newly regrown flesh where the dog’s tiny canines had broken the skin. Still, it wasn’t sanitary to reuse bandages, so Aziraphale set it aside, clearly torn between fetching more supplies and leaving Crowley on his own. 

“I don’t sense anything Infernal coming from the blade,” Aziraphale said tentatively. The demon tensed, ready to bat his hand away if he tried to touch it. “I think it might just be a perfectly normal dagger now.” 

“Oh, good,” Crowley chuckled darkly. “For a minute there, I thought I was in trouble.” 

Leaning heavily against the wall for support, a gusty sigh passed his lips. Even with all of his powers directed towards the wound in his torso, it wouldn’t make a lick of a difference if the blade was still inside him. “Go get the supplies,” he grunted, jerking his head towards the bathroom where disinfectant and a couple sutures could be found for occasions more or less like this one. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He tried to arrange his features into some semblance of reassurance, and since whatever the result of his efforts was convinced Aziraphale to hurry to the bathroom, called it a success. Now that the angel wasn’t hovering for the moment, he poked and prodded carefully at the cursed dagger, weighing his options. Even if the Archangel’s blessing and Hell’s demonic energies seemed to have canceled each other out, he didn’t want Aziraphale anywhere near the blade, let alone touching it. There could be some residual Infernal taint. It wouldn’t do much for a creature already damned, but for an angel… 

His mind conjured up an image of Aziraphale screaming, the blackened husk of his hand clutched to his chest as the corruption climbed up his arm. Crowley gripped the blade by the hilt and ripped it out, spattering the tile with his blood when he tossed it, then sagged to one side, black spots swallowing his vision.

Aziraphale didn’t owe him anything. He’d already saved his life when he gave him that thermos in 1967, and in a million little ways ever since Eden, but as Crowley felt his consciousness slip away, he thought he heard his name being called, and couldn’t help but hope the angel would save him again.

 

Arms full of bandages, gauze, needle, and thread, Aziraphale tucked in his chin to keep the bundle steady. It was absolutely imperative that this be the sole supply run, since he was hardly keen on leaving Crowley on his own. He’d been halfway to the conservatory when a metallic clattering reached his ears, and he broke into a run, bursting into the room to find Crowley lying slumped and grey, bloodied hands at his side as the dark patch over his abdomen continued to spread. 

With a cry, Aziraphale collapsed beside him, setting the supplies down as carefully as he could manage. Then he laid a thick wad of gauze over the demon’s chest and pressed down with both hands, babbling apologies when the demon writhed under him, neck snapping, back arching unnaturally. Nails lengthened, hardening into claws that scraped the concrete. Soon Aziraphale’s palms were coated in the black, viscous ichor that wept from the wound. Something wasn’t right. Crowley’s corporation should have started healing itself by now. Golden eyes blinked languidly up at him, taking in the angel’s frantic energy, the blood like pitch that covered him. Dizzy and exhausted, the demon managed a somewhat slurred, “‘m not hurting you, am I?”

Relieved beyond measure to see that he awake and somewhat lucid, Aziraphale exclaimed, “Crowley!” Frustration bled into his features. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” When the demon didn’t respond, Aziraphale chanced removing the gauze, “I did not just spend every day thinking about how to bring you back so you could go and get yourself discorporated the second I leave the room,” and was at least partially mollified to see that flow from the wound had slowed to a sluggish trickle. Now that the worst of it had passed, he unbuttoned Crowley’s ruined shirt, threaded a needle, then began the careful process of pulling and tugging the string through the edges of the injury, coaxing them together with determination and a prayer.

When enough time had passed without a word from Crowley that the angel began to worry, a rasped, “You were supposed to leave me there,” drifted up to him. The demon was staring resolutely at the ceiling with a complexion that was moderately better than before but still wouldn’t have looked out of place on a corpse. 

Irritation leaked through, “What in Heaven’s name are you on about?”

Though it was difficult to tell through his shades, Aziraphale was under the impression that Crowley had rolled his eyes. “Beelzebub gave me their word that,” he stopped, hissing through his teeth when the last stitch was pulled tight to seal the severed flesh closed, “they would leave you alone if I went quietly.” 

Aziraphale’s brows shot up, his mouth parting in surprise. His head was already shaking in denial. “No. No, they kidnapped you!” He snapped the thread, set aside the needle, then wrapped the area tightly, ensuring that the stitches would shift as little as possible when the demon moved. The conservatory was a mess, covered in splattered ichor and the remains of the imp. Since Crowley appeared to have been stabilized, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, sacrificing another miracle, and the tile sparkled with freshly-mopped cleanness. “It’s always the same with them. Threats and bullying, snide remarks and ultimatums. You know better than anyone that - that we’re not meant to undermine free will.” 

_Free will was Her gift to the humans,_ Crowley didn’t say. _It was never meant it for us._

“Hell keeps their bargains.” 

He tried focused on helping Aziraphale maneuver him into a close approximation of a sitting position, except his body refused to cooperate, sliding left and tilting right. Eventually, Crowley gave it up with a sigh, settling for resting his head against the wall while the rest of his body did whatever it wanted. It was humiliating to be so vulnerable. 

During the Great Heavenly War, rebels and loyalists alike would sometimes beg for mercy when faced with the reality of their choices, their ethereal forms made from love consumed by anguish and pain for the first time since their creation, only to be met with suspicion and the end of a sword. Friends turned on each other when the alternative was too frightening to contemplate - that they would Fall with the others. Any angels who tried to help the rebels were dragged down with them into Hell, where trust and compassion were burned out from their essence. 

Suffering. That was the reward for kindness.

The only angels that stayed were ruthless. Cruel. They could smite a demon like him without a second thought, without so much as a twinge of guilt or remorse, and he would be helpless to stop it. They-

A hand came to rest over white knuckles, warmth spreading through the contact. There were callouses on the palms and fingertips, but not from holding a sword. Any hardened patches were the result of hours spent with a quill and ink, pouring over manuscripts, unfurling scrolls, flipping pages by candlelight. 

Worried blue eyes looked down at him, and for a moment Crowley was lost in the sky.

_“I gave it away.”_

Air rushed out of Crowley’s lungs, taking the coiled dread in his chest with it. Unaware of where the demon’s thoughts had taken him, Aziraphale settled in beside him with an imperious sniff, “Ruined my favorite waistcoat is what they did.”

The demon blinked uncomprehendingly at him, but before Aziraphale could repeat himself, snapped with sudden vehemence, “Because you wouldn’t stop meddling!” It sent a shock of pain radiating through him and his body betrayed him, wincing without his permission.

Aziraphale tutted. “Are you quite finished, my dear?” Crowley fixed him with a sulky scowl. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. “I may not be a Healer but I’ve seen a fair share of injuries in my time. We need to find you someplace to rest.” Had Crowley been up to it, he might have pointed out that he already had someplace to rest - the floor was serving him quite nicely. 

Wanting to make the trip as painless for the demon as possible, Aziraphale left to locate the bedroom, then returned to help Crowley lumber awkwardly across the main section of his flat, most of his weight balanced on the balls of his feet and toes. He slumped before reaching the bed, his knees buckling as his body began to shake. Aziraphale yanked the comforter from the bed, draping it around Crowley’s shoulders like a cloak, then carefully lifted him onto the mattress. Once that was settled, Aziraphale climbed on with him. There was no telling how the weakened demon would react to his presence, whether it would heighten or hinder his healing, but Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to leave him shivering, so he laid close to the demon, radiating heat until the trembling subsided.

“I’m here,” he whispered, brushing sweat-soaked bangs from Crowley’s creased forehead. “I’m with you.” And the demon slept dreamlessly.

 

Crowley slept for a week. 

During that time, Aziraphale fumed and fretted, furious that his friend’s essence had been so thoroughly suppressed that the demon could unwittingly walk into a church. It had nearly destroyed him. And then Hell had the nerve to send an assassin, as though binding hadn’t been enough of a punishment. 

Even now, after seven days of watching Crowley remain past midnight, Aziraphale could barely shut his eyes. He was so afraid that if he blinked the demon would vanish, returning to the flower shop where he would greet him sweetly at the door, kind and cooly considerate, and without a trace of recognition. 

On the last day, Crowley sat up with a groan, his styled hair sticking up at random angles. His jaw widened with a pop as he yawned, stretching out his arms and working out the kinks in his back. He stiffened, aware that he was being watched, then looked down to see an angel staring adoringly up at him. 

An unintelligible noise escaped the demon. He swallowed, struggling. 

“Good afternoon, Crowley,” Aziraphale said with a too-bright smile. “I do hope you enjoyed your rest.” He sobered. “How are you feeling? Any pain?” That got him back on track. Explained why there was an angel in his bed, too. 

Bracing himself, he waved a hand over his face, brushing his cheekbone and forehead to gauge the damage. Whenever holiness was involved, healing tended to take occur at a very human rate, which meant that the sores and blisters were, if not entirely gone, much more bearable and less noticeable than before. The same could be said for the soles of his feet. Crowley had a feeling that if he walked on them now, any lingering burns from his ill-advised visit to the local church would hardly affect him. Even better, unpeeling the gauze and bandages over his abdomen revealed completely new skin. It was pinker than the rest of him, though that would fade with time. 

He turned to Aziraphale with a crooked grin, “Seems to me like you would’ve made for quite the decent Healer once upon a time,” and chose to ignore the odd slipping sensation in his stomach when the angel glowed at the praise, brighter than the brightest star.

 

Once Crowley had finished showering the week-old grime from the fight off himself and Aziraphale had finished brushing out his lying-awake-horizontally-mussed curls, they decided it’d been long enough since they’d gone out to eat together. Apparently, there was a new cafe open close to the bookshop that the angel had been dying to take him to for months and a reservation had just opened up.

It was a rustic sort of place, with red brick walls and menu drawn in neon-colored markers on a slate. The waitress guided them to a small table for two with a centerpiece that consisted of a scarlet carnation poking out of a soda bottle vase. Idly, Crowley noted a flyer that boasted of a live local band playing that afternoon, and made a mental note not to stay that long. He ordered an espresso for himself - brushing his teeth for an hour wouldn’t rid his tongue of the stale taste of demon blood, but a double shot might do the trick - then listened as Aziraphale ordered a cinnamon pastry, letting his words wash over him. 

Sometime between Aziraphale’s second scone and Crowley’s last sip of espresso, the topic of his arrangement reared its head. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Crowley stared at him over the rim of his cup, then set it down. “I would have come for you.”

Crowley couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Couldn’t exactly ask ol’ Beelzebub for a fifteen minute recess, Aziraphale.” When genuine hurt tainted the angel’s expression at his callous tone, however, he softened. “You know my side doesn’t work like that.”

“But you do know that I would have come, regardless… don’t you?”

Here was what Crowley knew - 

Had their positions been switched, he would have razed Heaven until its ashes rained down upon the earth, he would have turned Hell’s sulfur pools into ice skating rinks if that was what it took to get his angel back. 

Here was what Crowley knew -

Aziraphale had never asked for his devotion. It was freely given. 

Why did the moon orbit the Earth? When the alternative was drifting through the darkness without an anchor, revolving around another was refuge; it was safety. It was enough. 

It had to be.

All he’d ever wanted was to be by Aziraphale’s side, and short of that, to keep him happy, safe, and whole. He thought he’d at least managed to accomplish the latter before the angel had gone and mucked it all up.

Crowley gestured towards the steaming coffee, the television sets, a whirring blender, and above that, beyond that, “Aziraphale, look at this world we saved.” He waved a dismissive hand, adding, “Well, I suppose Adam saved it, really, but we helped.” He coughed. “Anyway, humans need all that stuff - hope, justice, faith, innovation. All those clever made-up things that humans believe into existence so that they can irrigate their land, harness electricity, land on the moon. That’s where you and people with even a fraction of your goodness come in. But the bad stuff? Sins and temptations and all that funny business? They’ve got more than enough of that to deal with. Hardly need any more of it from the likes of me.” 

“What are you saying?” The mock-whisper wasn’t enough to hide how Aziraphale’s voice climbed, confused and frightened. “You couldn’t actually be suggesting that… that your presence here is worth any less than mine?” 

Several of the cafe’s other patrons glanced their way, curiosity overriding courtesy. Crowley fought down the urge to snap at the lot of them, instead opting to pluck the carnation out of the vase. The end of the stem was sticky with sap, bleeding water and sugar and nutrients. Keeping his voice level in the hopes that the angel would follow suit, Crowley replied, “That’s exactly what I’m saying, angel.” 

It wasn’t an endearment. Not this time. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips, leaning over the table to place a palm upon Crowley’s temple. The demon batted him away with a hiss, “What are you doing?! I’m not _blessed!_ ”

“I need you,” Aziraphale blurted. His cheeks flushed. “It’s not… It wouldn’t be fair to the humans to tip the balance towards either of our… towards Heaven or Hell.” 

“If you think that’s the case,” Crowley slumped in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a scowl, “then you really have been hanging around me too long.”

The amusing thing, which actually wasn’t all that funny, was that not too long ago an imp had made a valiant attempt at disemboweling him, yet in that moment it was Aziraphale who looked gutted. He wrung his hands nervously in his lap, trying to meet the demon’s gaze in spite of Crowley’s efforts to avoid his. Embers of anger revitalized came in on a whisper, on a breeze, and Crowley winced, unable to tell if the stirrings of wrath were aimed in his direction or born for his sake. He was still rolling scarlet petals in his hand when he noticed a smattering of spots on his skin. He stared at the marks on the back of his hand, realizing when he shifted and the spots moved without sensation that they were only shadows produced by droplets clinging to the windows due to a light drizzle outside. It wasn’t too surprising since London was in the throes of its year-long rainy season, but it did make him think of something odd the humans had come up with: 

When the angels cry, they make the rain. 

_Did you cry for me?_

Conversation in the cafe dulled to an indistinguishable murmur in the background, along with the clatter of silverware, the clink of glass, the occasional meeting of porcelain plates and wood. As the rest faded away, Aziraphale came into sharp focus, every silver curl that shone like starlight, every dimple. For a breath, for a blink, he was the realest thing in Creation. And then he took Crowley’s hand, “Whatever was done to convince you of such silliness,” the demon didn’t bother suppressing a scowl, “whatever promises were made, wherever Gabriel or Beelzebub hid you or how they shaped you, it wouldn't have mattered.” The pressure around Crowley’s hand increased in increments, offering warmth and reassurance. “I would have found you at the furthest edge of the Universe. At the end of time. _Always._ ” 

Crowley stared at the angel through half-lidded eyes, scarce daring to believe what he was hearing, while Aziraphale waited, saint-like in his patience, his skin never breaking contact. The cafe’s ambiance grew louder, as if to underscore the point that they weren’t alone, nor were they ever, really. There was always someone listening, Above or Below. Soon the sense of dread overwhelmed him, and Crowley blurted with a note of panic, “Universe doesn’t have an edge.” Confused, Aziraphale frowned slightly, but didn’t interrupt. “Humans took one look at that big black thing above their heads and thought, ‘Well, that’s got to end somewhere,” but it doesn’t have to do anything.” The confusion turned to understanding. Acceptance. Aziraphale’s mouth quirked upwards in a fond, if somewhat sad, smile. Meanwhile, Crowley wasn’t finished. He flailed his arms to illustrate just how enormous the expanse of space was, and would have sent his cup and saucer flying into the stratosphere if they hadn’t mysteriously righted themselves. “That’s not how infinity works, you see. The Universe goes on for as long as it wants, it’s the stars and stuff playing catch-up.” 

“Even still,” said Aziraphale, a twinkle in his eye. “You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.” 

Crowley wanted to believe it. More than he’d wanted anything. He didn’t know if he deserved to have someone so good at his side, or if they’d be punished for it someday, but for now he wanted to savor the time they were spending together, and not think about tomorrow. “What was he like?” Since Crowley had opted to change the topic without preamble, Aziraphale hesitated to respond, so he elaborated with a limp wave of his hand and a long-suffering, “The me that thought he was an honest-to- _Somebody_ human?”

“Sweet. Kind.” Crowley winced, his whole body tensing with a retort burning like acid on his tongue. He swallowed it down. Let it burn his throat, instead. “Very much like you, my dear, but…”

When Aziraphale trailed off, his gaze distant, Crowley couldn’t tamp down his bitterness any longer. “Minus six thousand years worth of baggage.” It was ridiculous to be jealous of himself, yet he couldn’t help begrudging this other blissfully ignorant him the carefree time he’d spent with the angel. What must have been like to walk with him and speak with him without the impending threat of punishment looming over their heads?

Crowley hadn’t realized he’d begun tearing the petals from the flower he was holding until Aziraphale muttered, “That won’t do,” and waved a palm over the stem, causing petals to spring forth and roots to sprout from its severed parts. There was no point putting it back in the vase now. It wouldn’t fit, and if they tried to force it, it would die.

Reverently, Aziraphale entwined their fingers, lifting their hands as one. “I missed you,” he said, strangled. “This - _us_ \- took so many thousands of years to build.” They’d walked through battlefields, attended plays and art galleries, celebrated countless of humanity’s trials and triumphs together. The past, present, and future lived in their memory, and in that, the world. “Truly, he was very good to me. He was you, in a fashion, but also not.” There was a lull in the conversation, long enough for Crowley to think he might have time to take a breath and try to process what the angel was saying, except Aziraphale thought it would be better to take a wrecking ball to his train of thought. “I think he might have even loved me,” the angel pondered that for a moment, unaware that his lunch companion had short-circuited in a spectacular fashion, before adding with a wry chuckle,” though I can’t imagine why.”

“He loved you,” Crowley replied roughly. “I know he did.” He’d placed the carnation down so he didn’t continue ripping it to pieces and somehow his cup and saucer had found their way to the other side of the table so there was nothing left for him to break except his own heart. “He still does.”

And there it was. The raw, undiluted truth of it. 

Aziraphale had never asked for his love, his care, his affection, his protection. He’d never asked Crowley to fall for him, which was why he had - why he’d been falling for him for every second of every day for thousands of years. Aziraphale was one of the good ones. He was special. But most of all, he was kind. 

Money was placed on the table. A barista thanked them and wished them a nice day. At some point, they must have left the cafe, because the next time Crowley looked they were standing outside under a canopy too small to sufficiently shield either of them, and Aziraphale was looking at him differently, elation and relief and trepidation and longing all mixed in a blender. The distance between them was yawning, yet he darted in effortlessly, sealing Crowley’s lips with a kiss. 

It tasted of cinnamon and coffee, the salty tanginess of oysters, and the sweetness of crepes. It was slow and tender, exploring in a way that Crowley had always imagined; desperate in a way he hadn’t. When they parted, Aziraphale was blinking rapidly, swiping at his cheeks to keep the tears at bay. Crowley found his hands and held them. “How long did you miss me?” The words tore from his throat in the form of a ragged half-whisper. 

Gradually, Aziraphale explained that he’d been imprisoned in Gabriel’s gilded cage for about a year on the outside. “It took a considerable amount of tries before I was able to locate the exact dimension you were bound to, and they switched it up a few times afterward to, as the kids say, trip me up.” There were so many variations to sort through in the multiverse, overlapping and entangled. That he was able to find Crowley at all, let alone within a hundred years, was about as likely as humans roasting marshmallows over the sun. One couldn't help but wonder if there had been some intervention of a rather Divine sort involved, but that was a question for another time.

Crowley leaned against a storefront window, ostensibly watching the cars drive past though his mind seemed to be elsewhere. The angel came to stand beside him, brushing up against him, and suddenly Crowley was all too keenly aware of the contact, like fire running up his side. Aziraphale had always been a tactile creature, but so very rarely with him. “I’m glad you found me.” It felt like a selfish thing to say. Their former sides would have left Aziraphale alone, he was certain of it. Beelzebub, at least, would never break a contract. Still, Crowley was a demon, and demons were allowed to be selfish. “It would have been far too boring without you.” He noticed Aziraphale was stubbornly looking in the opposite direction, but even the set of his shoulders and a hint of red around the tips of his ears was enough to know he was pleased. Unfortunately, if they didn’t start moving soon, Crowley was certain that he was going to spontaneously combust. Pushing off the window, he exclaimed, “Honestly!” Then strode down the pavement while Aziraphale scrambled to follow. “Putting a blessing in a demon’s head.” He made a noise of disgust. “What’ll they come up with next? You’d think that sort of thing’d be against the Gehenna Conventions or something.”

Aziraphale side-eyed him. “I… I don’t think that’s a real thing.”

"Well, clearly it should be. I walked into a bloody church!"

They were heading in the direction of the bookshop. Crowley turned up the collar of his coat up against a cool breeze, hunching. Shortly afterwards, a tartan scarf was draped over his shoulders, and while his brain did whatever the mental equivalent was of stalling-out, Aziraphale took advantage by entangling their elbows, banishing the chill from his bones. 

The demon watched where their bodies touched more than where he was going, but his legs knew the way. They’d take him where he needed to go. “You realize,” Crowley quietly began, “that I’ll have to go back eventually, don’t you?” Aziraphale stumbled, held up only by his grip on Crowley’s sleeve and the demon’s frantic attempts to right him. 

He looked up at Crowley with wide eyes. “Why ever would you?”

“It’s still my shop. I can’t just abandon it.” It may have been created by Gabriel, but it belonged to him, and the plants there hadn’t been complicit in his imprisonment. When push came to shove, they’d even protected him. He shuddered to think what either the Archangel or the Prince of Hell would do to them if they discovered he’d flown the coop. 

“I have a spare flat,” Aziraphale was saying in a rush. “You could keep them there for as long as you like.” He moved to snap, to turn the idea into reality, but Crowley stopped him. 

“They’ve been absorbing Infernal energy for ages,” he said, not unkindly. “No telling what an angel’s miracle would do.” 

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped, then his head shot up, nearly catching Crowley on the chin. His eyes blazed. “Then I must insist that you take me with you.” There was determined set to his jaw, as though he were bracing for an argument.

“Sure,” Crowley agreed easily. He sauntered towards the bookshop, letting the crowd part around him without knowing why. “Doubt I’d get far on my own, anyway.”

 

The flower shop, as it turned out, had been officially named, _Serpent’s Eden_. Most likely by an Archangel that thought he was being rather clever. Crowley studied the looping cursive, the serpentine _S_ that curled around the other letters as though holding them hostage. The vines creeping over the sign were, he begrudgingly admitted, a nice touch. 

“Would you look at that?” He motioned to the sign, face split into a grin. “Looks like they wanted you to find me, or at least to stare sadly through the windows.” For his part, Aziraphale did not seem to find it remotely amusing. It wasn’t until Crowley spotted the license on the storefront that his countenance similarly soured. According to the sheet of paper taped to the glass, the shop was registered to Gabriel. There was no last time and the date of birth was crossed out, replaced by a question mark that either expressed confusion or alluded to a creation preceding the construct known as Time. Not that Crowley cared in the slightest. He snapped his fingers - the license burst into flames - then flipped the sign to _Open_ with a defiant and prickly, “Screw Gabriel. This place belongs to me. Even says it on the sign.” 

After about a minute or ten of assurances that he would leave the instant he began to feel the least bit strange or forgetful, they entered the shop, prompting a startled and delighted gasp from the angel. Sunlight shone down from a skylight in the ceiling, its rays alighting upon the greenest, healthiest leaves in London. The plants quivered at their approach, their stems and petals stretching to catch their clothes and hair as Crowley proudly displayed the stream running through and over the soil, trickling over stones and pebbles, along with a small waterfall that had replaced the irrigation system. There was a rock garden filled with sand and grooves, and an apple tree with a broad trunk whose branches brushed against the ceiling. 

The shop was bigger on the inside now, bigger than it had any right to be. Unless, of course, Crowley was taking advantage of certain extra-dimensional properties. 

“It’s not such a bad place, is it?” Not wanting to appear too eager to know what the angel thought, he peered over his shades, though there really wasn’t any reason to put on airs between them, anymore. 

“I think it’s splendid, my dear.” Aziraphale bent to study singed vines of ivy and was pleased to discover new growth among the burns. “But… surely you don’t intend to stay here forever?”

“Not forever, angel. Heaven and Hell have better things to worry about than one lowly demon. Give ‘em a decade or so and they’ll forget all about little ol’ me.” Standing in a place of his creation with the love of his eternal life, Crowley believed this was true. He believed it with every ounce of his being, all the way down to his core, where it began weaving itself into reality, into a song that was not a prayer, yet reached Her all the same.

And so it was.

 

Time crawled past. It also trotted, galloped, trudged, raced, and sauntered, as it tends to do for human-shaped beings. The bookshop down the street in Soho was closed indefinitely, which admittedly wasn't all that different from when it’d been in operation, and a flat in Mayfair was sold.

A demon and an angel sat together in the living room of their cottage in the South Downs. It was filled to the brim with the most luxurious, most verdant flora in England and stuffed with to the gills with rare books of prophecy and manuscripts. A fire snapped and popped from the slightly damp wood it’d been fed, kicking up smoke, though neither of them seemed to notice. Beside the demon’s armchair was a snake plant, an evergreen perennial that released oxygen and was said to ward off the evil eye. It had been given as a gift the day his shop had finally closed for good, and he’d been playing favorites with it ever since. It was now the sort of plant that was treated well and kindly, but lived in constant fear of its envious brethren. 

At this moment, the demon was half-asleep, warm and comfortable with his fingertips occasionally ghosting over the angel’s knuckles. He thought about Shakespeare, curious customers, and questions. “ _They say he is fair, and virtuous, and wise_ ,” he mumbled drowsily, prompting the angel to peer up at him. A mischievous glint entered the demon’s dark eyes, “ _...but for loving me. By my truth that is no addition to his wit._ ”

“ _Nor no great argument of his folly_ ,” Aziraphale quoted with a dazzling smile. “My dear, if I be wise, as you say, how ever could I not?” Their hands found each other, fingers interlacing. The angel returned to his novel, a hint of pink in his cheeks, while the demon drifted, knowing that when he woke he’d be exactly where he was always meant to be.

To capture their feelings with language known to Man would be akin to the act of shoving galaxies into a fishbowl, but between them was a small, high table whereupon a clear glass vase sat, within it a meticulous arrangement of ambrosia, globe amaranth, and tulips, as well as a single yellow daffodil that through some miracle never withered, never faded, never died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, thank you so much for your support!
> 
> Red Carnation - My Heart Aches For You, Admiration  
> Ambrosia - Your Love Is Reciprocated  
> Globe Amaranth - Immortality, Unfading Love  
> Tulips (Yellow) - There's Sunshine In Your Smile  
> Tulips (Red) - Declaration of Love


End file.
